


once upon a time in nazi-occupied france

by yonderdarling



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, France (Country), Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Death, M/M, Nazis, Past Relationship(s), Relationship Discussions, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 121,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's sitting in a cafe in Vichy France (he was aiming for 2042) and waiting for his lunch when Missy plops down in the chair opposite him." This is an idea they've had before, it's just the first time they've both been able to consider it. The Doctor and Missy try travelling together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. once upon a time in nazi-occupied france

**Author's Note:**

> I think about the Doctor and the Mistress travelling together a lot.

 

> _We met at the wrong time. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. Maybe one day years from now, we’ll meet in a coffee shop in a far away city somewhere and we could give it another shot. —Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)_

*** * ***

The Doctor looks in all the usual places. And by all, he means the ones he can access, the ones he can stomach seeing, the ones that still exist. Gallifrey is right out, and he skirts around most of the major conflict zones because he's just not in the mood. And really, it's no use looking if she doesn't want to be found.

Regardless.

The usual places he ticks off are Melcassario, the Silver Devastation's Golden Age. An asteroid made entirely of dwarf star iron that smells like burning metal even through a spacesuit. He stops on the Eye of Orion, breathes in deeply, can't sense a living thing out in the mists and ruins. The premiere of the _Fabulous Baker Boys_ , because they've both always had a thing for Michelle Pfeiffer. The Festival of Stars on Krechna - ten thousand tiny suns shining in the sky over a planet where multicoloured crystals grow like grass. It's beautiful, even through his triple-glazed sunglasses. The premiere of _Coriolanus_ , too, because Missy likes Shakespeare more than she'll admit.

He paces through the six millennial markets of Neptune over six thousand years; if Missy's avoiding Gallifrey too, she'll need to get TARDIS parts from somewhere. He gets distracted in Market #4, because they have the most incredible collection of guitars he's ever seen. One even shoots fire, and he's sure if Clara was around, and he remembered her, she'd be the kind of person who would try to talk him out of buying a flame-throwing electric guitar, but then ask to use it when he ignored her and bought it anyway.

He misses Clara, in the way you miss someone you don't remember. He never met his grandparents - or if he did, he's forgotten that too.

 

  *** * ***  

 

Missy isn't on the Planet of the Apes.

Things that are on the Planet of the Apes: a man who looks oddly like Matt Damon, a tour bus full of people from a nearby mining planet, a 1950s diner. He does a double-take at the last one, and it's gone when he looks again.

In 2087 the International Space Station blows up, and he goes and checks that out, but it seems the archivists just weren't cleaning out the dust filters properly. The Doctor goes to a poetry recital with Ada Lovelace, helps some space-bees find a new space-hive, sells the honey off at some farmer's market, and goes back and buys the flamethrower guitar with the cash.

 

It's pretty wicked sick.

 

*** * ***

 

_once upon a time in nazi-occupied france_

 

Missy has always been rather like a stray cat; showing up when she wants attention or food, absent when he needs something from her. As such, he's sitting in a cafe in Vichy France (he was aiming for 2042) and waiting for his lunch when Missy plops down in the chair opposite him.

"Jim the Fish," she says by way of greeting. "Is completely and utterly useless. I'll never understand why you recommend him."

"I've never recommended you go to Jim the Fish," says the Doctor, hoping Jim will be alive next time he sees him.

"Not directly, no. But I hear things," says Missy, and flips through the menu, blows air out from between her lips. "What are you having?"

"Vegetable stew."

"Ah, you're back on the hippy horse again," Missy says. "Which means - " she drops the menu back on the table. "Time Lords. How is the mother country?"

"Same as always. Hot, dry, full of morons in stupid hats-"

"Funny you should say that. Jim had a photo of you in one of those - cowboy hats humans wore in the Americas. You and the missus - "

"Stupid collars. Thanks," says the Doctor, as his soup is placed in front of him. "Do you want anything? I'll pay."

"So generous," says Missy. She orders tea and cakes and then picks up her spoon and takes a sip of the Doctor's soup.

"You never pay anyway," he says, swatting away her hand. "And that stripper you got during my stag doesn't count. Where have you been?"

"Avoiding you."

"Seriously?"

Missy meets his gaze over the table, blue eyes into green. He breaks first, as usual, and looks at his plate.

"I have hobbies, Doctor. I've just been kicking about, sightseeing."

"How many people have you killed?"

Missy leans back in her chair, rolls her eyes. "Do you want this month's estimate or an all-time tally, because either way we'll have to head back to my TARDIS, find the spreadsheets-"

"Since I saw you last."

"Since you left me to die on Skaro."

The Doctor knows himself well enough; remembers enough of what happened despite the gaps in his memory. "Since you did something to upset me enough to cause me to leave you there. And Missy, history shows. You bounce back."

Her cakes are brought to the table.

" _Merci_ ," says Missy drily, as much to the Doctor as to the waitress. She picks the strawberries off one of the pastries, eats one, licks her fingers clean of powdered sugar. "Want to know how I escaped?"

"I can never follow your escape stories," the Doctor says, and stirs his soup.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, the Doctor crumbling up some bread, Missy eating the strawberries one by one. A group of Nazi officers let themselves into the cafe, taking their hats off and holding them under their arms. The Doctor ignores them. Missy nods to one, who gives her a slow smile.

"I lose count, every time," Missy says, cutting open something with raspberry jam on the inside. It oozes red over the plate. "I mean. Really. How many people have _you_ killed?" Any other person, any other time or place, that would be a question that pierces him to his soul, makes his blood run cold. The Doctor keeps eating. Missy looks around the cafe, catches eyes with the Nazi again. She turns back to face the Doctor. "Where's Clara?"

"That's why I was looking for you," the Doctor says.

"Ugh, you've not gone and lost her, have you? Because it's nothing to do with me." Missy licks jam off her finger. "Check behind the sofa in the blue library, I always lose my keys-"

"I went back to Gallifrey. I went kind of - I think I went mad, Missy."

"Probably. You've got that flame trees, orange skies, blown pupils look about you. Tea?"

"Thanks."

She pours him a cup, then herself. Passes him the little jug of milk, the little rose-patterned sugar bowl.

"I erased Clara from my memory, accidentally. Sort of accidentally. I don't know how it happened."

Missy takes a sip.

"Tell me about her."

"Needs sugar."

" _Please_."

She smiles at him over her cup. "Ask her boyfriend. Oh wait, I killed him. He was a Cyberman. Great day. You and me, we made out. Twice."

"I remember the Cybermen. There's holes. I can fill them in, logically. I know Clara must have done X so I was still alive to do Y. I know she saw me kiss you in the graveyard, I know you must have saved her from the Daleks. You knew Clara better than I first realised. So. Here I am. Asking."

"I saved her from the Daleks because you would have gotten all pouty and grouchy if I didn't. There was no sentiment there my dear. It was pragmatism."

"Please, Missy." The Doctor wonders how many times he's said all the iterations of that - please Mistress, please Master, _Koschei_ _come on, let's just leave this place, let's just go._

Missy puts her cup down, opens her mouth. The Nazi from earlier approaches, excuses himself. He's middle-aged, with tanned skin and light green eyes.

"Sorry, ma'am. But you are - " he speaks in halting French, heavily accented. "You have not been in this town long?"

"No, no," says Missy in flawless German, and smiles, showing fangs. "Just arrived this morning. To visit my big brother." She gestures at the Doctor, who nods, pointedly doesn't smile.

Emboldened, the man switches to German. "I was wondering, if you were going to the dance in the town hall this evening?"

"Well," says Missy, and she laughs. "I have no plans, but I may see you there."

"You can't give me a guarantee?" he asks.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Excuse me Sir, we're having a conversation. I haven't seen my sister in a long time. We're catching up."

"I didn't mean to intrude," says the officer, frowning slightly.

The Doctor holds up a hand, makes himself smile. "I mean, she really enjoys dancing and she's very available-"

Missy pulls a look of mock-horror at his remark, then giggles. The Doctor's skin crawls. He takes a closer look at the man - he's older than he originally thought. Probably old enough to have served in the First World War. Almost definitely. They threw them all in at the end, he saw a family having to send their son away, long ago, and he didn't come home. He can't even remember which body. It's irrelevant anyway. It's useless. It's taking up time he doesn't want to waste watching Missy's sideshows.

"But right now we're just dealing with some family issues," the Doctor says. "Privacy would be appreciated."

"Apologies," says the man, and bids his farewells, they all heil their Hitlers, and he retreats to his own table.

"Not every day you get to stand up a Nazi," Missy says, watching him go. She gives him a wave and he returns it shyly.

"Don't stand him up. Go have fun. I know you love kicking it in this period."

"Gosh gee, Doctor, you're the best big brother a girl could ask for. Going _dancing_ with _Nazis_."

"You love Nazis. You're older than me, too."

"Nope. I scanned you, back when I was in the Nethersphere," says Missy, taking a crust of his bread and dipping it into his soup. "Not anymore. Couldn't get an exact reading, but the word _fossil_ comes to mind."

"Remind me, Mistress," says the Doctor, and Missy smiles, then takes a bite of bread. "Is this regeneration number eighteen or nineteen out of thirteen?"

"We should go dancing," Missy says around her mouthful. "Jazz in New Orleans, we don't even have to shift that far in time. Or we could -" she swallows. "Oh, you used to love dancing," she's properly smiling now, grinning. "And you always had to drag me out of the house. The Cavern, about the same time jump forward. Remember when we went to the Riot of Spring?"

"You started the riot." he realises he's smiling too, shakes himself. "Come on. Please tell me about Clara."

The grin drops off Missy's face, and she picks up her cake fork. "She was short."

The Doctor nods. Missy pulls the fork's tines through the remnants of the raspberry jam, spears one of the strawberries. She speaks with her mouth full.

"Big eyes, like that cartoon with the horses. It doesn't exist yet. In the forest. No, they're deer."

"Bambi."

Missy points her fork at him. "Yes. Take charge attitude. Quick thinker, though obviously not quick enough. I picked her for you because she was a control freak."

The Doctor absorbs all this, nodding. "Only you didn't pick her. I found her."

"She smelt like cinnamon," says Missy.

"Seriously?"

She pulls a disgusted face. "I didn't smell her Doctor, that's foul."

"You smell me."

"You're you. I can smell you. You're a Time Lord."

Missy refills their teacups, passes the Doctor the sugar again.

"Do you have - anything else?"

Missy takes a deep breath, lets it out. Looks out the window behind the Doctor and fiddles with her cameo brooch.

"I remember when I gave that to you," the Doctor says, and sighs. "Throw me a bone here, Missy."

"I told her I had a daughter. She looked really. Appalled." She smiles, doesn't meet his gaze. Neither of them has brought her up in centuries. "Shocked? No, appalled is the right word. With a touch of 'I thought you only recently got a uterus, how do Time People breed?'"

"How did that conversation happen?"

"We were in the Dalek sewers - after escaping the Dalek council on Skaro, you remember that bit? Yes, good. Do you remember giving me this?" She taps her brooch with her nail.

"It's dark star alloy."

"Cuts through the Daleks like a knife through a person."

"I gave it to you - after everything. Because of it." The Doctor leans over, squints at the brooch for a second. "It's held up well. It still looks like her - well, you actually look a bit like her this time around. Where has it been?"

Missy smiles. "And I told Clara. She looked surprised, like - she was shocked I could have ever done anything as _selfless_ as parent. As _human_. She wasn't surprised _you_ had kids. You're such a dad, this time. She wanted to see the world in black and white, but thought you two could occupy the greys. I was too dark for that. She didn't like one jot."

"So she was also sensible."

Missy smiles into her tea. "This is nice," she says. "We never just _meet_ anymore. I always have to enslave something."

"I do know you have my number. You're the uh- " the Doctor clicks his fingers. "The woman in the shop. That's what how you put me and Clara back together."

"I know, but phones aren't really _our_ thing this time. There's no excitement in - " she held a hand up to her ear, pretending it's a phone. "Hello dear, it's me. The Shadow Proclamation is currently under my control and following my demands to stomp out any beings with more than two thumbs. Your move, or this moon goes. Very gauche. If anything, it was mine and Clara's thing."

"So, you had a thing. You must have liked her, or trusted her, if you told her about all that. Or, did she remind you of you?"

"Honestly, Doctor, if I was a thousand years younger and two millennia more innocent, and had a human-sized IQ and a cockroach-sized imagination, and looked a bit like a cartoon rabbit-"

"I thought she looked like a deer."

"Cartoon bunny. They're both does. She could have been a sub-par, knock-off, low quality version of yours truly."

"On a bad day."

"On a good day for her-"

"Bad day for you. Well. High praise," says the Doctor.

Missy finishes the her cakes, draws her finger through the crumbs. The Doctor takes her last strawberry. It's red and juicy, perfectly balanced between sweet and tart, and he savours it. They sit for a moment and drink their tea.

"You treated her like a daughter. That's probably what triggered me, saying that. It was nice to see." Missy rests her chin on her hands. "I remember more from watching you with your other kids, of course, you had much more time with them. Doctor Dad, Uncle Koschei. You done?"

"Yeah."

The Doctor pulls out his wallet, leafs through eight kinds of currency, finds the right amount plus a tip, and tucks it under his plate. Missy stands and dusts off her skirt. On their way out the door, she winks at her new friend, who blushes. A middle-aged man. A war veteran. A Nazi. Blushes.

"The cheekbones on this body," Missy mutters, nudging the Doctor in the ribs, and he has to laugh.

Another soldier stops them just outside the cafe and asks for their papers. The Doctor sighs, holds up his psychic paper and receives a salute; Missy stares into the soldier's eyes and after a few tense second, he folds at the waist and bows deeply. Missy takes the Doctor's arm and he leads them down the street. The sun shines palely down and a cool breeze blows through the houses and shops. The Doctor takes a deep breath, looks around.

"I think there's a river around here somewhere," he says. "I was last here in winter, it's quite nice. This is early spring, I think. Look at the clouds."

"When was that?"

The Doctor clicks his tongue as he thinks. "It was with Susan, but she didn't like the way the language sounded, and I didn't like living with a different bunch of fascists in a different bunch of silly hats."

Missy tucks her free hand into her pocket, leans against the Doctor as they walk. "So you came looking for me," she says. "You haven't done that since - I was blonde, and a cannibal."

"That was more of a desperate flailing sprint to where I thought you could be. Why did you pick that quarry?"

Missy frowns. "Can you be a cannibal if you're not ingesting the flesh of your own - oh, I was an anthropophagite. That's the one. And the quarry? I barely knew I was in England, let alone in a rock yard. I mean, you saw the state I was in. Now."

The Doctor and Missy step off the path, out of the way of a group of tipsy German soldiers.

"Down here," says the Doctor, and they go through a small side-street, feet crunching on the stones, then across a grassy field. There is a river, still running pale and cold with ice-melt from up in the mountains. They follow it quietly, Missy leading the way.

"Do you have a new human yet?"

"No."

"Any-"

"No."

They continue on in silence, the river rushing by and getting deeper and wider as the countryside gets less cultivated.

"Here will do," Missy says finally, where there's a relatively dry and clear patch of grass, and flops down in the centre.

The Doctor sits down carefully, stands up abruptly and takes his coat off. He lies that on the ground, sits on top of the fabric. Missy crosses her legs and picks at the grass, starts putting it in a little pile. The Doctor watches her fingers get tipped with dirt, listens to the river rushing by them.Missy starts a second pile. The Doctor goes over to the river bed, picks up a dozen pebbles and hands them to her.

"Thanks," she says, dropping them into her lap.

"How are you?" the Doctor asks finally. "The Time Lords, and that."

"Did they erase your memory?" she says. "They've done that to me. Ended up putting them back in. At least I think they did."

"No - no. They trapped me in my confession dial - " the Doctor watches Missy; she continues to pick at the grass, face carefully blank. "For a few….hundred, thousand years. I think. It blurs together. I was trying - I think I wanted to keep Clara alive, I think she was dying." Again, he watches her expression. Nothing. "I don't know, maybe she was sick. I think I saved her, there was a gun, but it wasn't pointed at her. And I think I wanted to erase Clara's memory of me, to stop her doing stupid things - maybe, maybe she _wasn't_ sick. And-"

"She turned it on you."

The Doctor rubs his eyes. "Maybe. You said she was smart."

"I never said that."

Missy sprinkles her grass pickings in a circle, places a few of the stones at key points inside it. She lays out blades of grass into arcs and triangles, writing in a child's form of Gallifreyan.

"I've turned it over in my mind a thousand times. I can't get the shape of it."

"I can't help you," Missy tells the grass. "I only met her twice _really_ , and it takes a while to hear what they're saying, you know. Through all the whining and human wants and needs and pettiness. Watched you two for a while, but once I was done with her, I was done. That's the problem with you and your humans. You just get so attached."

The Doctor knows she's lying about basically everything, but picks up on the easiest thread.

"You liked Lucy."

"You know I have a thing for blondes. Your fifth body-"

"Chang Lee?'

Missy blinks up at him, mouth slightly open. "Who? Ah, exactly. There we go."

"Chantho."

"Oh God, do I remember her." Missy clicks her teeth together. "Still can't stand that species."

"I know, I double-checked on the planet on my way here. Don't try anything, they're peaceful, and you'll end up trying something and tearing a hole in space and time."

Missy glares daggers at him, insulted he'd imply she'd cause a space-time tear _accidentally_. "I did like that body though. I was all old and pudgy, I like being pudgy. Did you like me pudgy? And that waistcoat-"

"I like you always, Missy, that's usually the problem."

"I get bruises easily in this one. You've seen. Legs are too thin," Missy says. She starts a new grass circle, linking it with the first. "I need more rocks."

The Doctor carries over some more stones, puts one on the edge of the new circle. "Time Lords are back though. We're renegades."

"We've had this conversation before. It's familiar. More reason to avoid them now, for me. I'm not in exile anymore. I'm an active war criminal now, there's even warrants. Who knows what they'll do if they find _you_."

"They're scared of me. I kicked Rassilon off the planet."

"That's a - that's a bit arousing," Missy says. "After what he did last time, Gods above I'd love to get my hands on him. Does this make you President again?"

"I didn't even think of that," the Doctor says, and sighs heavily. "Probably. Ugh. I'd let you have it, but they'd execute you the second you came within Gallifreyan airspace." That's a lie - the giving her power part, not the executions.

"Some have power thrust upon them," Missy says. "Any more Clara related questions?"

The Doctor has a thousand and none; Missy won't be able to describe Clara's laugh or smile, or if she preferred to sing or hum or whistle because those things wouldn't be useful. Missy will know if Clara was left or right handed (dominant or non-dominant side), how she had her tea (some poisons can't be hidden by milk), would know all of Clara's bad memories, the cracks in her psyche and the low points in her confidence, and _especially_ her weak points about the Doctor. That's just who Missy is, who she's always been. Clara wouldn't have been a person to her, just a means to an end.

"She was right handed," Missy says. "You're thinking very loudly. Calm down."

"I know your weak points."

"I let you keep those. I know yours, too."

"What are you writing?"

Missy looks up at him, as if surprised by his curiosity. The river bubbles past. "Not sure yet. We'll see how it goes."

Missy waits for him to say something, but when he doesn't, she starts humming and goes back to writing. "Any requests?"

"Something from the Rioshanah system."

Missy starts quietly singing an operetta from the lost planet of Berenna instead. The Doctor lies back on what looks to be the driest patch of grass and listens, watching the wispy clouds move overhead and feeling dampness slowly soak through his jacket. The pebbles clack in Missy's hands, in time with her song. Something occurs to the Doctor, and he breathes out, tries to get it out of his mind. It doesn't work. Missy swaps to one of the more famous dances from the main planet of Rioshanah, the very picture of innocence. The Doctor sits up, narrows his eyes at her.

"You told Clara  _you_ had a daughter."

Missy doesn't look up from the ground. "I did. I need more rocks."

The Doctor gets up and walks over to get them, dips his hands into the cold water and feels the sting. He returns with a bigger handful this time. He's not going to let her distract him.

"You didn't say-"

"My exact line, from memory, was 'The Doctor gave it to me when my daughter-' and then I remembered I wasn't speaking to anyone who deserved that information. There's one other being alive in the universe who needs to know, and that's her father, and I'm looking at him. Huh. He's looking really grumpy."

The Doctor reaches over, drops the stones in her lap, sits down heavily. Stares at her. Missy fiddles with one of the pebbles. It gleams, still damp in the watery sunlight.

"So you said my daughter, not our daughter."

"She was _my_ daughter. She was _also_ _our_ daughter. Come on grumbleguts, you'd be just as mad if I told her we had a kid. Actually, she would have thought I was lying." Missy places a pebble carefully, still not looking at him. "I needed her to trust me so I could get her into that Dalek casing. I got distracted. I got drunk. I was traumatised from being back on Skaro. I wanted to mention it. I don't know why I said it."

"Dalek casing?"

Missy waves a hand. "Long story. You thought it was hilarious." He sincerely doubts that. "But don't worry Doctor, she didn't know it was ours. Your reputation with her, as it was, remained intact."

"You told Clara - _my Clara_ \- about our daughter."

"It slipped out."

"Was she - was Clara like her?"

Missy swallows, lets the last of her pebbles slip from her fingers. She thinks for a moment, moving her head from side to side slightly like a snake, eyes closed. 

"No," she finally says. "No, not really."

The Doctor breathes out.

"She wasn't really old enough to have a personality, anyway," Missy goes back to writing. "Not Clara. You know."

The Doctor lies down, looks back up at the sky.

There's nothing to say about their daughter that they haven't already said or shouted or screamed or thrown thousands of years ago. They had that conversation a hundred times while they were both still based on Gallifrey. In many ways - it's been too long. At this stage of their lives, she's more of a concept than an actual being. The pebbles clack. Missy snaps off more blades of grass. The wind picks up a bit, rippling the surface of the river and rustling the plants. Just as quickly, it dies down into stillness again. The Doctor breathes in the cool air, closes his eyes.

"Why are you still here?" Missy asks.

"I'm enjoying your company."

"The moon must be blue today. Any other traumas to dredge up?"

"Honestly, Missy, more than anything else," the Doctor, looking over at her. "I'm amazed you still have that brooch."

"It's special to me. You know what amazes me, my dear?"

"Hm?"

"Two thousand odd years of conscious life, or however old you are this week, and you're still looking towards the stars." Missy flops back on the grass as well, kicking her legs out over her writing so the Doctor can't see it. "The wheel turns, and nothing ever changes."

"Maybe some things should change," the Doctor says.

They can leave it at that. He got what he came for, and more besides.

Missy sits, looks at him quizzically. The Doctor stands.

"I'm off," he says. "I might come back for the dance."

"You _might_."

"Well you have a date," the Doctor says. "I can't come alone."

"Ugh, please don't bring one of your humans. They always get weird around the Germans." Missy stands too, scuffs her boot through her writing and scatters the stones. "Dress nice."

"If I come. And I said. I don't have a human right now."

Missy comes over and the Doctor leans down, presses their foreheads together. She expects mental contact to go along with it, but instead she just feels briefly warm. She rests a hand on his waist, closes her eyes.

"You'll come," she says, and then he leaves her in the forest.

 

*** * ***

 

_once upon another time in nazi-occupied france_

 

The earth is spinning 1600 kilometres every sixty minutes, hurtling around Sol at 108,000 kilometres per hour. The solar system moves828, 000 kilometres in the same amount of time, and the galaxy moves at 973,331 and Missy's being spun, the man's hands are warm, too warm, feverish, on her waist, at 4,300,000 kilometres per hour through the universe. She can waltz now, prefers that to the foxtrot, so much better the drums are gone.

And then, at 4,300,000 kilometres per hour, the Doctor arrives, and for a count of four heartbeats (two sets of two, diastole-diastole-systole-systole) everything goes still and quiet. Four heartbeats at her current rate is just over a second; she blinks and the Doctor gives her a half wave and a smile, his teeth wonderfully protuberant, and the soldier is spinning her again and the band finishes on a crescendo.

The soldier dips her and Missy catches herself on his shoulders, runs one hand down his jaw, cups his face.

"My brother is here," she says, and the soldier lets her up. Missy smiles at him, watches him watch her with interest. "I'll go say hello, see if he's coming in."

"He's not coming in?"

"He's not a big dancer anymore."

"Good, then I don't have to share you," the Nazi says - she really should find out his name, but that requires effort she can't be bothered to expend. "Hurry back."

She knows he watches her go. This is a great dress - she went to the tailor yesterday, this afternoon. It's still purple, but period-appropriate. The Doctor is waiting outside smiles wider as she approaches, takes her hand and spins her around as they go outside into the evening mist. The Doctor leads off to the side, out of sight of people from inside the dance hall. He looks nervous.

"Where have you been?" she asks.

He thinks, and inside the band starts up again with a similar tune, something with a bit of bounce.

"Do you want to dance?" Missy asks, and he shakes his head.

"Around," he says. "The markets on Thotht. Gave some strategy advice to the rebels in the Keltnenar wars. Pizza with Michaelangelo."

"Did you find your bunny?"

The Doctor looks confused for a second. "Wh - ah, no. No. I've just been around. Thinking. I'm not coming in, I just wanted to check you hadn't - "

"No, I haven't murdered any Nazis, dear. It just gets messy when they're in power."

The Doctor tucks his hands into his pockets, looks at his feet. "I have an offer for you."

"Always an exciting and usually dangerous thing. What is it?"

"Can we walk?" The Doctor gestures into the dark, offers his arm.

Missy rolls her eyes, takes it. "This better be good. Are there lasers?"

"Not currently, but lasers can be tabled."

They walk down the darkened street, Missy's heels clicking on the cobbles. The shops are dark; only a few lights in the houses are on. Everyone's either at the dance or staying well away from the Nazis - that'll serve them well, when the war is over. Missy takes a deep breath of the chilly night air. The Doctor wends them round a corner and up a side-street, presumably towards his TARDIS. Missy clicks her tongue. There's one second-story window lit up that throws both of them into dramatic, noir-esque shadow.

"Doctor, are you going to-"

"Do you want to travel together for a while?" the Doctor chokes out.

Missy stops, turns to face him.

"What do you want?"

The Doctor's face, half hidden in the darkness, falls. "Company, Missy."

"Can't find a human for your entertainment?"

"I don't want a human. I want someone who can take care of themselves, who knows what they're doing-"

"Is willing to commit minor homicides and coups on your behalf so you don't have to feel all guilty and sad-"

"I don't want you to do that - I don't want anyone to do that," the Doctor sighs, steps back and leans against the wall of the butcher's shop. "Apart from the TARDIS, you're probably the most constant thing in my universe."

"That's sad," Missy says. "I mean, it's the same for me, but damn is that sad."

"And with the Time Lords back and being - themselves - maybe the best thing for us isn't to fall back into old habits. Habits like-"

"Actually, if we're discussing this, you leaving me to burn to death is something I wouldn't like to return to." Missy crosses her arms. "This is certainly a weekend of conversations I didn't want to have."

"That happened - once."

"Twice, I count defeating Rassilon for you as burning to death. I got crisped up in the process. What? It counts."

They stand in the darkness of the alleyway for a moment. The Doctor scuffs his boot along the gutter. Missy straightens her dress.

"Cup of tea?" the Doctor says finally. "My TARDIS is around the corner."

"Right."

 

*** * ***

 

Missy likes the green kitchen with the really big sink; this Doctor likes a 20th century-styled white tile affair that for whatever reason, has a washing machine next to the dishwasher. They end up settling on one that's modelled after the height of Edwardian wealth and taste, but without the downsides of the same era. There's an electric kettle that matches the decor.

"Whatever tea you have is fine," says Missy. "Unless it's that stuff with cranberries. I hate cranberries."

The Doctor nods, head bent over the cups.

"You don't want to fall back into both of us roaming about the universe, only meeting when you happen over one of my projects - don't scoff, that's a fine word to use," Missy says, "Or having the occasional sexual-tension-laden phone call to tide us over. You're lonely, Doctor. My dear fellow. You poor chap."

"Do you want biscuits?"

"Yes please." Missy drums her fingers on the table. "You're not looking to fix me again, are you?"

"No, no I'm not."

"This isn't a Clara-related grief-induced idea of madness?"

"It's a Clara-and-Gallifrey-motivated concept we've both been kicking around on and off for a good few centuries." The kettle boils, the Doctor fills the cups. "The way we always wanted, when we were younger."

Missy gets up and finds the biscuits in the second cupboard. They're odd oat-and-golden-syrup with coconut concoctions. She arranges them on a plate, dumps them in the middle of the table and sits back down again, chewing.

"I think. Missy. If we could stop fighting-"

"I like the fighting. The fighting is what we do. It's an intellectual challenge in a universe that continually lacks anything more interesting."

"I like _this_ , Missy," says the Doctor, and presses his palm against the bench. "I know you do too. And the fighting - a bit. A tiny bit." Missy narrows her eyes at him. "You know me better than anyone, and I know you. I remember what you said. I want my friend back as well."

Missy nibbles on another biscuit, proffers one to the Doctor. He takes it, examines it.

"I have no idea where these came from."

"They taste like the 1980s," Missy says.

The Doctor brings the mugs over and sits opposite her. She takes her cup and clasps her hands around it.

"You want to live and travel together again? Because that ended so well last time." She pauses, slurps her tea. "I assume shackles come into this somewhere."

"Not unless you want them," the Doctor deadpans, and Missy snorts. "No, you assume wrong. Part-time. Casual basis. When one of us needs - or wants to - see the other. I don't like coming across you when you're in the middle of ruling, and you've never appreciated me-"

"Rejecting my generous, magnanimous offers to let you build a decent society on some of the most backwater planets in the universe, bringing knowledge and - " Missy peters out, drinks some more tea. "We'd be dating again."

"We never _dated_ , Missy."

"Stepping out. We used to read poetry to each other. I built you a binary load-lifter translator."

"I didn't need a BLLT," the Doctor says.

"You wanted one."

The Doctor smiles, and looks decades younger. "I did. They were good times. It won't be the same, Missy, of course. But being alone hasn't worked for either of us, and Gallifrey isn't an option. I don't want to fall in with another human, another mortal again, I'm so - so, sick of it. It hurts. And it hurts me when you show up and wilfully destroy things when you know you're a better engineer and a better builder than that."

Missy gives him a funny look.

"All the best war-makers in history have wanted to build something. Don't you want to create instead of destroy? And don't you dare say create an empire."

"Creating stuff has never worked out for me," Missy mumbles, and starts fiddling with her brooch again. "You know that."

This isn't a new conversation either - it's just new they're both in vaguely the right mental state to actually consider it, at least on a temporary basis. He's got no human hangers-on; she's not tied to a chair, he's not tied to a chair, she's not controlling any planets or people. As far as he can tell. This would usually be the point where Missy gives up and leaves, or they end up having sex and one of them - whoever's TARDIS it isn't - slopes off the next morning after breakfast.

At that, Missy looks up, raises an eyebrow.

" _No_ ," says the Doctor lowly, and she grins. "I'm not - you know what I'm like now, it's not about the sex, I like being close to you. We can make pancakes later."

"How many times have you gone down this train of thought?" Missy asks.

The Doctor shakes himself. "Far too many."

"I like listening to your hearts," says Missy. "They're one of my few constants in the universe."

"It's just an idea. We've both had it a few times along the way."

Missy breathes out, shakes herself and stares into the middle distance. The Doctor reaches across to take her hand, and she puts a biscuit in it instead.

"You're not saying we should shack up in your TARDIS and play domestic bliss-"

"I think blitz might be a more appropriate description for that. But Missy." The Doctor says. "You and me. Time and space. This is what you wanted in the graveyard, I remember. Is this what you still want?"

"I have time and space."

The Doctor thinks for one second he's really mistimed his pitch for this idea, until Missy smiles softly and puts her hand over his and the biscuit.

"And I get you," she says.

The Doctor relaxes, feels the biscuit softening and the honey melting into his palm. They sit. Missy holds her tea in her free hand, sips. The Doctor picks up his own mug.

"What now?" Missy asks.

"What do you want to do?" he says.

"You'll want to put the TARDIS controls on isomorphic," Missy says abruptly. "Or you'll be lying awake every night listening for me sneaking into the console room and trying to nick it."

"You have your own TARDIS now," says the Doctor.

"I'm petty, dear," Missy says. "But then the real question is, what next?"

"What would you like to do?"

They both look around the kitchen. The Doctor takes his hand away and brushes the crumbled, sticky bits of biscuit into his saucer.

"Have you got a pack of cards?" Missy asks.

"I do," says the Doctor. "Let's go look."

It's a good a place to start as any.


	2. pre-emptive peace offerings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> visit one; poker, prison and anne of green gables.

 

 

 

>   _How fragile we are, between the few good moments. - Jane Hirshfield._

 

*** * ***

 

That first night, they play poker for matchsticks.

The first two days are spent - doing very little. The Doctor and Missy watch films, eat at a lot of ridiculously expensive restaurants, tip generously, and go to the most random museums the Doctor's TARDIS can find. The curds and whey exhibition is the Doctor's favourite. Missy likes one on the invention of the rapid-burning fuse, situated on a lava planet, which the Doctor pretends to disapprove of. There's a hell of an explosion to watch when the inevitable happens.

The second night the Doctor sits in the library and noodles on his guitar. Missy lies on the couch opposite him with her shoes on the cushions, dogearing all his first editions. 

On the morning of the third day the Doctor finds Missy asleep in the library. He throws a blanket over her, comes back with tea, waits for her to wake up.

"You still have a room," he says. "It got archived. I brought it back when you came on board."

Missy's face is smushed into the couch cushions. "I - good. Thanks."

"There's the wardrobe as well," the Doctor holds the tea out to her, but she doesn't seem to register it. "You've left clothes here over the years," and for a second he's very interested in the idea of Missy in a Nehru jacket and leather gloves, and Missy smirks sleepily at him. "But they won't fit anymore obviously," the Doctor continues. "There's clean shirts and things."

Missy finally drags herself up into a sitting position, yawns and stretches theatrically. Her lipstick is smeared on one side of her mouth. The Doctor points at the corner of his own mouth, and Missy clumsily swipes at it, gives up, takes the tea.

"I'll investigate in my own time," she says, slurping. "Any plans for today?"

The Doctor shrugs, pushes her legs off the couch, thinks better of it and sits opposite to her, on the coffee table. "First, did you want to do anything in particular?"

"I'll find my room. And my study," she says. "Study first. But you've got that look on your face."

"I think we need to write up an agreement. Terms and conditions. Of this deal," says the Doctor. "The past couple of days have been great, but if the shine starts to wear off…"

"Excellent point," Missy says. "No shackles. Unless I ask."

"No using your time inside my TARDIS to research and sabotage my friend's lives?" the Doctor says in a rush, tensing.

Missy nods enthusiastically, surprising him. "Or, you don't get to try and incite me into rescuing cats from trees."

Rummaging in his pocket, the Doctor finds his little black book. Licks his pencil. Missy pulls a face.

"Come on," Missy says. "There's no ceremony in that."

"I'm just taking notes for later. I'm pretty sure there's actually a legal-contract signing room around here somewhere, I never use it."

"Is that where you have your copy of the Magna Carta? I lost mine."

"You're not getting my one," says the Doctor. "But yes."

"Neutral places and times," Missy says, and watches the Doctor write it down. "Neutral for us anyway, I love the Gaza Strip. But you know. 2008 is right out. 1996. That planet with all the breadsticks I gave a yeast infection to, to destabilise the wheat industry. 1973. Gallifrey."

The Doctor looks up. "1973? What happened in 1973?"

Missy pulls a face. "I just don't like 1973. Especially Manchester. Either of us can leave, at any point. No questions asked."

"Well, let me know if you're going. You know," the Doctor says. "So I know you're coming back."

Missy nods again. "But if one of us gets in a mood. Has a funny turn. It's probably better to avoid that situation than try and defuse it."

"No sabotage of previous or future plans," the Doctor says. Missy raises her eyebrows. "Well, I know you, and you know me, and I know what you know about - yeah. So we won't do that." He continues, more serious. "Hurt this machine and you'll never see me again, Missy. She's already on edge. Hurt any of my friends - "

"I'll see you later, you'll just be quite pissy about it," Missy finds her reading glasses, puts them on, takes his book. Keeps writing. "No talking about Fight Club," she says. "What happens when we're travelling, doesn't get discussed outside of us. No using this to try and talk me down from something. No information goes to UNIT, or Martha Jones, or the Shadow Proclamation. Breakfast."

The Doctor blinks. "Ah - I suppose….We take turns making it?"

"No have you had it? I want toast. Come on. We'll finish this with food." Missy stands, shakes out her skirt. "Don't worry, Doctor. I want this to work. Probably almost as much as you do."

 

*** * ***

 

They end up in the cinema room watching some silent film from 1930s Germany. During the intermission Missy rummages in her dress pocket, and the Doctor hears something crumpling. She holds up a tattered white paper bag and the Doctor starts laughing.

"You _didn't_."

"I did." Missy offers him the bag. "Jelly baby?"

 

*** * ***

 

Missy vanishes that afternoon, and the Doctor wanders the hallways, berating himself for panicking and thinking she'd left. She couldn't leave. They were in deep space, her TARDIS still in Vichy France. 

And the TARDIS was still feeling chilly, like he insulted her circuits. Missy was still onboard.

He finds her in her old (ancient) disused study.

Missy is adding figures to a whiteboard covered in equations so complex that it makes the Doctor's eyes hurt to look at. She doesn't turn around when he comes in, just points over her shoulder. She must have dropped by the wardrobe first, because her 1940s dancing dress is gone, and she's dug up a long blue skirt and white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Penmarks dot and line her wrists.

"Sit down," she says. "I want to show you how I escaped Gallifrey."

He freezes up. "Why?"

"I know how you got out. You should know the same." Missy puts her hands on her hips. "And well. If they caught either of us again, this might come in handy."

It's an olive branch. A pre-emptive one. The Doctor does so, pulling the couch over from the corner and placing his hands on his knees.

Missy sits beside him, and ignoring the whiteboard, talks quietly for a few minutes about being reborn from the Matrix. The orders the Time Lords had given her, her first escape from the Time War, how she'd made herself in Professor Yana.

"But this is how I did it, the second time," Missy says, and stands.

She finds her pointer and it turns into a fascinating lecture on the theories behind transporting one corporeal body and mind from inside the Time War to another universe. She's animated and pointing, clear and concise when she discusses the physics and chemistry and newest concepts in matter transference. The Doctor remembers the noises they'd made at the Academy about Koschei moving into working as a scholar. Koschei had chosen the army instead. More chance of social mobility. More chance of heading off-world.

"Doctor?" Missy says, pointing at one of her scrawled figures on the whiteboard. "You get it?"

He nods, leans forward again. "I had to do some of this myself."

"Yes, but you had both arms," Missy says. "And you didn't want to survive making it to the other side, did you?"

That's what he hated most, about the early days after the Master had returned, back when he'd been pretending to be Harold Saxon. The Doctor had been the lone survivor of the Time War and rebuilt himself, built a version of himself that could pretend the Time Lords and Gallifrey hadn't been a sump of madness and agony and bitterness and violence to the end. His Ninth and Tenth bodies had pretended the Daleks had ended the war so hard they'd nearly believed it.

The Master had returned and figured it out in one phone call.  _All of them? But now you, which must mean...You must have been like God. How did it feel?_ And his skin had crawled. No, his skin had burned.

Missy leans against her desk, stares him down. "Not boring you, am I, Master Theta?"

"No. Sorry. Just thinking."

"I know," says Missy. "Anyway. I abandoned the corporeal body element to streamline the process. It's not like I haven't been without a body before." She  examines the board, adds a figure to one of the graphs. "I don't quite remember how I did this bit."

"How did you know I ended the Time War?" the Doctor asks abruptly. "Well, sort of ended it. The first time."

Missy turns back to him. "Three main points." She ticks them off on her fingers. "First off, I come back, as Yana. Then, I come back properly, as me. I find out that though Gallifrey is apparently gone, along with the rest of our people, which I never really thanked you for - "

The Doctor laughs bitterly.

"Gallifrey, Gallifreyans, Time Lords and Ladies and Gentry all gone, all our outposts, all our ships, our satellites, gone. Okay, I think, and what the Shadow Proclamation reports, and even the _Eternals_ seem to believe is that the Time Lords and the Daleks took each other out, and the planets of Gallifrey and Skaro with them. Happy ending," Missy says. "But _you're_ alive, which gives me reason number two. The Doctor wouldn't just run from that fight. You would have stuck it out on Gallifrey till the end. So it had to be you who ended it. I mean, the last I'd heard of you in the war was that you were a General. Motive, means, opportunity."

"They didn't tell me you'd been resurrected," says the Doctor. 

"I did pick that, somewhere between the 'how did you survive' and 'why are you still alive.' Anyway. Our people, planet and culture, all gone. The Doctor is seemingly, the only other survivor. The Time War is over. Yet Daleks are a dime a dozen," Missy turns again. "Third reason. You forget to comb your hair, you forget birthdays and anniversaries and the seasonal celebrations. You forget little things. You wouldn't forget to take out the Dalek armies unless there was a bigger threat coming from our side. Ergo, you ended the Time War by taking out the Time Lords. I just didn't know _why_. Decided to leave it."

"And then you - ?"

"Landed your TARDIS, designed some satellites, walked out the door in a new suit. Boring, really. You know how that one ends." Missy looks at her whiteboard, points. "This part took me a decade to put together."

She monologues on matter transference, pointing away. "I completed this area of the algorithm twice, had it written on my arm in charcoal for months until I could figure out what to do next. But the guards found it, they cut my arm off, the Time Lords, did a botched memory wipe, so I had to start all over again. The negative fractals over here are cancelled out by this energy pulse but need to be kept in so the whole equation doesn't skew to the left…"

The Doctor lets her words wash over him, sits until he realises she's finished talking.

"And that's how I escaped," Missy says, sitting down in her swivel chair behind the desk. "Three decades of work, an arm and both legs."

"Which arm?" he asks finally, his Eleventh self coming through.

Missy looks at her hands. "I was right handed," she says slowly. "So it was my left. At first."

"Did they let you regenerate from it?"

"They cauterised it," Missy says. "Didn't want me to die, Doctor, I was too useful. They would've done the same to you. Now, the real question we should be asking is can the Time Lords track our TARDISes now?"

"I don't know. I doubt it," the Doctor says. "If they could track me, why would they have come at me through Ashildir? They could have scooped you or me up whenever they wanted."

"They could try." Missy holds her left wrist in her right hand, studies the whiteboard. "They haven't tried contacting me."

"You know I don't know if I can believe you, right?"

"Mm-hmm. But believe me, Doctor. After the war, it would take a _lot_ to make me work with the Time Lords."

"Do you want to talk about the war?"

"Not today." Missy drums her hands on her knees. "Hm. I had a war, and an imprisonment. I wasn't like you, on the front lines, being a hero."

"Do you want to talk about the imprisonment?"

"Will that help you believe me?" Missy asks, and the Doctor nods. "Not much to talk about, really. I was in a cell, by myself, for a long time," Missy says. "I didn't kill Rassilon."

"I picked that."

"I didn't have enough power to do that unfortunately. Though he would have come back anyway, he's the biggest cockroach of them all," Missy spins around so her back is to him, like a Bond villain. "Typical, really. They wanted me to work for them, either in strategy or weapons design; biometrics. I didn't have enough forethought for longterm strategy, but weapons. I've always been _able_. Even at my worst." She spins again, faces him but doesn't meet his gaze. "I didn't work fast enough, so they tried extracting my ideas with less traditional methods."

"Did it work?"

Missy props her chin in her hands. "Visitors. Which I didn't respond to. Mind probes. Of course that didn't work. And the Time Lords neglected to stabilise the problems I was having with my regeneration energy, which didn't help. All I had was the voice in the wall."

"The voice in the wall?" the Doctor asks.

"I was moved twice. In my second cell. Someone in the cell next to mine. Was there a lot longer. Had scratched almost all the way through the mortar between one of the bricks with their bare hands. They talked at me. I couldn't talk. They talked a lot," Missy twitches. "Counted my regenerations, told me what day they thought it was. Told me what they'd do to the President when they got out. What a vivid imagination they had."

"How many times did you regenerate?"

Missy shakes her head.

"Did they lose count?"

"They took them away, after they found out about my plans. Made them watch me having my arm cut off, first. For all their talk about being the highest race, our people sure do get dirty when the going gets tough."

The Doctor watches her carefully. "But you didn't see who it was?"

"I passed out from the pain. I mean, really. Doctor. I doubt they knew who I was either, just the neighbour from hell who wouldn't stop screaming. Anyway. Things really went downhill from there. Cutting off limbs is a gateway drug." Missy scoffs. "Amateurs. Torture rarely works." She shrugs. "But. I escaped. Hit the Silver Devastation dead on, as planned, found my old TARDIS." She caps her marker, throws it at the whiteboard. "And here I am. Didn't even get to take out our entire race on the way."

 

 

*** * ***

 

A few days wheel by. They go to the 1965 Melbourne Cup, knock a rogue asteroid back on course and revisit the Riot of Spring and try and spot their younger selves in the crowd. Missy makes them hike up a Martian mountain and the Doctor loudly complains the entire time, threatening to rescind their entire contract.

The view at the top is pretty nice, though.

"Not worth it," says the Doctor.

Missy turns to him in her spacesuit. "Be happy I'm not ruling it."

"Gosh, what a beautiful view," the Doctor says sarcastically. "Red dirt and rocks. Why Mars? We've both been before."

It's a struggle for her to shrug in her spacesuit, but Missy manages it. "It was entertaining watching you do the walk. My God, but do you bitch this time around."

 

*** * ***

 

There are three main libraries on the TARDIS; fiction, non-fiction and Gallifreyan tomes that blur the lines between the two. Each contains millions upon millions of books, and the card catalogue alone hosts its own unique breed of dustmite. The Doctor finds Missy lying on the rug in the non-fiction library, feet propped up on the couch. She frowns at something published by the United Nations Space Exploration Agency in 2740.

"That's just petty, they don't even get around harnessing wormholes for another millennium," the Doctor says.

Missy peers at him over her reading glasses. "You proofread NASA's code for that lady with the face. That's _cheating_."

"She _asked_. It was all fine, too, excellent stuff."

"I'm looking at their aborted experiments, not equations," Missy says. "Where the humans nearly pushed in the wrong places. Or did push, and got stopped. By a certain person or persons unknown."

"Looking for your next project?"

"I could be just reading, my dear. Broadens your mind you know."

The Doctor leaves her, wanders through the shelves and retrieves the TARDIS theoretical repair manual he's been perusing. This is a special edition and projects what a mechanic could do if they were unable to access Gallifrey for spare parts or resources. Theoretically, because the concept alone was just so improbable. It had been an intellectual exercise for the writer, based around fixing Type 75s through to 77s at a stretch. There's little else written like it, and the Doctor is getting anxious trying to find resources.

Missy eyes him off as he crosses the room again. The Doctor throws himself onto the couch opposite her, takes his own pen out of his pocket, finds the page he folded down.

"You've been fixing this junker for years without Gallifrey or even the technical manual on it," Missy says after a few minutes. "I'm not passing judgement, I've always been impressed. What's changed?"

"I threw the manual into a sun."

"That was ages ago."

"There's only so much duct tape in the universe," the Doctor says. "Metaphorically speaking. I'm not sure how many parts a TARDIS can have from off Gallifrey before it starts really affecting the machine's health. I used to be able to swing by Gallifrey and steal parts, sometimes from my brother, but I haven't since the war ended. It's been centuries. I'm getting worried. Are you having the same problem?"

"Cannibalise the chameleon circuit. You're never going to fix it, you big sap. Use the parts elsewhere."

The Doctor rubs his eyes. "I have. The ventilation system cut out a couple of years ago, needed urgent repairs. I had to do it in a spacesuit."

"She can handle it," Missy says, and flaps an arm out to pat the TARDIS's floor. "She's a tough old bird."

The machine makes a low grinding noise, trembles in response.

"Never going to like me."

"You turned her into a _paradox machine_."

"That was ages ago! In my defence-"

"There is no defence for what you did."

"In my defence," Missy raises her voice, doesn't look away from the manual. "She made a hell of a paradox machine. Oldest TARDIS model to ever successfully be used as one, plenty of life left in her."

"I'm so proud. You know, you could help me with this now. That would be impressive."

"I'll help when I feel like helping."

"It's the rotor casing, you see, it's worn almost through on one side, could end up destabilising the Eye of Harmony," the Doctor says, dangling the problem in front of her like a carrot. "The case needs to be white-point-star-diamond based."

Missy keeps reading.

"You see, this is the problem with these vintage TARDISes," says Missy. "I mean they've got style and a great vibe but is it _really_ worth it? I like older models, but they're just no good for everyday use."

The TARDIS flickers her lights and the floor judders again.

"Sorry dear," the Doctor says in a low voice. "It's just-"

"The sex is just that good," Missy mimics his tone, flips a page.

"We haven't had sex since…the graveyard. I think. Years," says the Doctor. "I don't know if my memory's intact on that front."

"Can confirm," says Missy. "A few weeks after the graveyard, your time anyway. You bitched me out about lying where Gallifrey was, then bang. Straight to it on my console room floor. _Then_ you had a moan about how guilty you felt, like you were betraying Clara and the Boyfriend of the Clara, who you thought had come back to life but found out after all _that_ , that Clara had been lying to you because you were lying to her about finding Gallifrey. You met Santa Claus afterwards."

"I...did meet Santa Claus. Clara was there?"

"You told me that a couple months later, dropped in for five minutes while Clara was asleep on your TARDIS. We had a cup of tea, then I made you a sandwich and sent you on your way." Missy pops her lips. "If Clara was around, that would explain why you don't have a clear memory of it."

The Doctor tries to process everything Missy had just reeled through. "The console room floor? Why were Clara and I lying?"

"The console room floor. Then whining about Clara and whatshisface, which is probably why you don't remember. Gallifreyan mind-wipes overestimate their reach sometimes, they have to. It's safer than the opposite."

"I'm - okay, then." The Doctor finds himself thinking of carousels. "So Clara and I would lie to each other, and we met Santa Claus. And then you and I shagged on your TARDIS floor."

"Bang on. Like I said. Console room floor. _Twice_ , now I'm thinking about it. Huh," Missy says, still reading, speaking lightly. "It was good. You were very thorough. Almost scientific."

The Doctor tosses up whether to ask his next question flippantly or seriously. He tries to make it conversational. "Did I consent?"

At this, Missy does look away from the manual, sits up and glares daggers at him. "You tracked _me_ down. Nearly kicked my door in. I was in the capital of Beganahr at the time-"

Beganahr, a planet famous for its dense gold core and rich mineral deposits, protected by the best Shadow Proclamation troops. This, he does seem to have a vague memory of.

"-You were just really mad I sent you on that wild goose chase. Look at us now, you're regretting they ever made it back."

"How did that turn into sex?"

"Oh you know how it is, between us," Missy says. "You were there to talk, probably. But you get angry, it turns me on - or makes me laugh, because this time you seem to solely emote through your eyebrows - you get all in my face, then. Well. Our faces are near each other. You know the mechanics. You're running quite close to asexual this time, but my friend, turns out garter belts are your weakness."

Again, the Doctor takes a minute to process everything she just said. He takes another minute to deal with the image of Missy in stockings and garters.

"It's coming back to me," he says slowly.

Missy goes back to her manual.

"Would…do you want to? Not talk, I mean. The other thing. Have sex." The Doctor clears his throat, ignores the TARDIS flickering the lights again. "I mean, we can have sex if you want to." He directs his last sentence to the TARDIS. "You really should be used to this by now."

Missy shrugs, adjusts her glasses. "I'm reading. And I want to do my nails later."

They lapse into silence, the library clock ticking away the hours in the background. The Doctor settles at a leather-topped desk and finds various tomes on chemical compounds and diamond substitutes. He's leafing through something on ion bonding in supernova iron and clicking his tongue when Missy sighs, throws her manual on the table and marches out.

She returns a few minutes later pulling a whiteboard on wheels, and her pockets filled with a multitude of coloured markers.

"I have a blackboard in the console room."

"First things first," Missy says, ignoring him, writing a seven-part chemical equation in the middle of the board. "Do you have any samples at all of white point star diamond around here that hasn't been overused for 2000-odd years? Even diamond dust will do."

"I like the blackboard. It has aesthetic."

"Chalk dust makes my hands feel funny."

 

*** * ***

 

They go to the world premiere of _Stardust_. The Doctor does something he's been putting off for a long time, and goes and buys Terry Pratchett a drink. Missy stays outside the pub and encourages teenagers to take up smoking. Then it's across the universe to watch the equinox dance of the Varxa People, which takes nine hours and the Doctor dozes off during hour six. Missy shoves him off her shoulder.

They go to the Flattest Planet in the Universe, which just sort of looks like the Bonneville Salt Flats on Earth, only a lot bigger, with more signs proclaiming it the 'Flattest Planet in the Universe.'

"Kind of a letdown, if I'm honest," Missy mumbles, until she sees where the Doctor's pointing. "Oh, they have a gift shop. Do you think they have those giant pencils?"

 

 

*** * ***

 

Days later, the Doctor finally decides to go to bed. Strolling down the corridor, the TARDIS creaks around him, dims the lights slightly. He reaches out a hand and strokes it along the wall. Finds his bedroom door, opens it.

Missy's in his bed, curled up on the left, pretending to read one of his Puffin Classics.

"You're holding it upside down," he says, taking his coat off.

"Well I didn't want to look needy," she says, turning it the right way up. "Uck, I hate this book."

"I know you do. So do I." The Doctor finds his nightshirt, sits down on the edge of the bed to get undressed.

"Which is why you're reading it. You in a damn nutshell."

"Are we sleeping together now? Missy. _Missy_."

Missy peers at him over her reading glasses. "Hm?"

"Why do I get the pleasure of your company tonight?"

"TARDIS hid my room. This is my side, right?"

"Left. I don't remember," says the Doctor, putting his shirt to one side, pulling the nightshirt over his head. He stands to take off his pants. "Huh. I like not hearing you make fun of my pyjamas."

Missy pulls the blankets down to reveal her own pyjamas - a similar nightshirt, in purple. "This is a judgement free zone. You're adorable. Do you have a little matching cap? This one did, I just forgot to grab it."

The Doctor hrumphs, takes his socks off, climbs into bed next to her, lies down. He snaps the lamp off, leaving them in the darkness. Settles in. Lets his eyes close and relaxes. He senses Missy opening her mouth.

"No," he says.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're about to."

Missy moves.

"Don't you dare-"

Missy puts her lamp on.

"I have many regrets," the Doctor says, covering his face with his hands. "This is my greatest one, right now."

"I had to take my glasses off," Missy says, and lies down again, turns her back to him.

She snaps her light out, sighs.

The Doctor has to ask.

"What did you do to piss the TARDIS off?"

"Didn't rinse my plates before putting them in the dishwasher. Yes, you did remind me. Yes, I ignored you, yes. I'm sorry," Missy shifts. "I'm not sure if she thought this plan through though. I was in the pneumatics room earlier, looked at your oxygen pump, that's where I was-"

"Oxygen pump is fine."

"Oxygen pump is not fine-"

The Doctor shoves his face into his pillow, reemerges. "Will we die in the next eight hours?"

"No."

"Right, no need to worry then." The Doctor shuffles over, throws an arm around Missy's waist, presses his face into her hair. Missy hums. He pauses. "Are you worried?"

"I'm disgusted at the condition you keep it in. You know what makes it worse?" Missy says. "If it was just you onboard it wouldn't be that bad. Too many humans running around in here, expelling their carbon dioxide and methane and mmpf - "

The Doctor moves his hand up to cover her mouth. Missy licks his fingers. The Doctor presses down harder. Missy mumbles something, grabs his finger between her teeth, the sharp edges digging in to his skin. She wriggles, pushes her feet into his legs.

"You done?" he asks finally.

Missy stops moving, and nods. Stops biting his finger, still holds it between her lips.

"Right." The Doctor moves his arm back down to her waist, wipes it on her nightshirt, closes his eyes. "Wake me if we run out of oxygen."

 

 *** * ***  

 

Missy leaves a few days later; two months after that he gets a call from a friend on Navelle who begs his help. The new ruler of their planet, benevolent right up until the point they got into office, is transforming the planet into a new and cruel order, bent on controlling the system.

"Get the Shadow Proclamation in," the Doctor says, winding the phone's cord around his wrist. "You've dealt with dictators before, Umniel."

"We did get the Shadow Proclamation in," Umniel buzzes down the line. "She beat them back too."

The Doctor sighs heavily.

 

He lets the rebel leader head the charge into the palace, stays in the catacombs and sonics open the cells where the Shadow Proclamation troops are being held.

The only time he sees Missy is her grin at the end of a corridor in the Presidential suite. She smiles, flees left down another hallway. The Doctor falters, and one of the rebels catches up.

"Where did she go, sir?" he asks, and the Doctor points right.

Listens to the faint sound of a TARDIS dematerialising. Wonders, as per always, whether what he just did counts more as a good thing or a bad one.

 

Tries not to think about it and heads back to his TARDIS. Digs out his flame-throwing guitar. Yes. it's pretty wicked sick.

 


	3. time to practise sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reality ensues, and it's never pretty. stars sure are nice, though.

 

 

> _~~Humans~~ Time Lords have a knack for choosing precisely the things that are worst for them. - J.K. Rowling._

*** * ***

_Visit Two_

His first visit to Missy's TARDIS is less than a week, and they spend most of it playing an epic game of Scrabble that spreads over most of her TARDIS gymnasium. The Doctor wins, by a very thin margin and the use of seven Xes in a single word.

*** * ***

_Visit Three_

They go to an aquarium in 4028, on a planet otherwise populated by hydrophobes. Missy repeatedly threatens to spill her drink until the guards let them in for free.

" _Missy_."

"Look, a spanner-head shark!"

*** * ***

_Visit Four_

The Doctor plays chess against Deep Blue and loses spectacularly. To repair his wounded pride, he hits the random button on the TARDIS and it takes him to see Nyssa. He meets her husband and their lovely children, and shares a wonderful meal.

He doesn't mention Missy.

At one point while they're playing a game of what basically amounts to soccer with two balls, and the Doctor swears he sees a 1950s diner in the forest on the edge of Nyssa's property.

"What's that?" he asks, turning to his old companion, pointing.

"Doctor, there's nothing there," she says, and when he looks again, there isn't.

 

*** * ***

 

Missy's fourth visit is twelve days, nearly two weeks, and it's spent on grease monkey work. They take four days on the Doctor's TARDIS until Missy gets cabin fever, a day on Neptune at the millennial markets for parts, another two days in the Doctor's TARDIS and then they move to Missy's.

The war TARDISes were grown en masse and feel greasy when one steps inside them. At least, that's what the Doctor thinks. It's lean and clean and white on the inside, no sharp edges in the console room in case one is flying in battle and getting knocked about. There are laser cannons affixed to the railings around the console, all pointing at the door. Most of the rooms beyond are basic storage stuffed with weapons and provisions.

Well, people always assume just weapons. They forget. Weapons wear out. So it's more - weapons, tools to fix the weapons, spare parts for the weapons, spare parts for the tools, spare weapons. Food supplies, food purification systems. Water and water purifiers; air scrubbers.

"It's cold in here," the Doctor says.

"Yours runs too warm," Missy says, taking off her coat and throwing it over one of the guns. "It's a survival thing. Slows blood flow. Did you know regeneration is easier to control at low temperatures? Remember how they'd put the fatally-wounded soldiers in those hyperbaric hypothermic rooms?"

"For some, maybe," says the Doctor, who didn't.

"You need a room," declares Missy, marching up to the console, which glitters with rows of identical buttons and shiny switches. "Look at this."

She presses on the edge of the console, an area that looks solid and nondescript. A small compartment pops open. Inside, there's two laser blasters and a packet of gummy worms. Missy takes one out, starts chewing, shuts the compartment.

"I don't need a room," the Doctor says, walking up beside her. "It's just you've always - had a room on my TARDIS. Are you going to put the controls on isomorphic?"

Missy frowns at him. "Why would I do that?"

"So I don't, you know, take your TARDIS. Mine's on iso."

Missy presses some buttons quickly, turns, jumps so she's sitting on the edge of the console, feet dangling. The Doctor leans next to her, slides his hands and tries to find the hidden compartment without Missy noticing.

"You won't take mine," she says, twists and presses another button. The temperature increases marginally. "You wouldn't give that thing up for a Type 100 with a subwoofer and a rear spoiler."

"It doesn't seem fair, somehow," the Doctor says. "Unbalanced."

But it's realistic, and that's what Missy argues. "And it is balanced," she adds. "It's not like you're not putting part of yourself up at risk here. I've never been the best person for your mental health, my dear."

"Your TARDIS for my sanity?"

"Well," says Missy. "I wasn't going to say it out loud. But I think those are the stakes. I'm not aiming for it."

"Do you ever aim?"

"No, it's usually just. Accidental, incidental. Friendly fire."

She leans down, slaps her palm on the console face and the compartment pops open. Offers him a gummy worm. They're sour.

They spend almost twenty straight hours overriding security protocols on Missy's TARDIS so the weapons rooms can be jettisoned or used for alternate purposes. The next ten they spend on the beach in Rio. The Doctor takes his guitar. Missy brings headphones.

 

*** * ***

 

It's 37 degrees Centigrade; almost three in the afternoon. There's a southern-blowing breeze; the Earth turns at 1600 kilometres an hour, moves through space at 107, 000 kilometres an hour. The ocean is just over 20 degrees Centigrade on the surface. There's a stone in her shoe and sand in her hair. The Doctor dozes in the sun on his chair next to her, guitar fallen into the sand beside him.

"Why are you dressed like that?" someone asks.

Missy doesn't change her expression. Hopes this minor annoyance will go away.

"Why are you wearing that?" the girl asks again.

Tutting, Missy sits up, takes out her headphones, looks at the young, dark-haired girl with the nose-piercing. "Who are you?"

"I'm. Curious. It's about a hundred degrees on this beach, why are you dressed like something out of the Victorian era? You _both_ are."

Missy removes her sunglasses. Moves to put them on the table between her and the Doctor.

Takes a small breath.

Under the salty air, she smells the extra artrons on the girl's skin, the faint tang of TARDIS coral (Type 107; this particular TARDIS itself is around seven years old) and the cold metal emptiness of the vortex clinging to her clothes. The clothes themselves are all wrong; in the right cut and colouring for this era and her apparent age (fifteen, human, adolescent), but the fibres are synthetics from centuries ahead and light-years away. The girl's face and torso support Missy's guess at her age; the girl's slightly widened hips hint at previous pregnancies, plural and at least almost to full-term. Despite her youthful face, there's something old in the girl's bearing and soldierly in her expression that belies extreme age, experience. An attitude problem. Takes one to know one.

Under the crashing waves, the wind, the dubstep still playing over her headphones, there's a tiny hum, undetectable to human ears or scientific equipment coming mostly from the girl's forehead. It radiates on a frequency usually relative to Aleenan, Mire or Q'angzahnienen technology. Old, hybridised technology. F-sharp. It's Mire tech.

This is an ancient half-human hybrid with the face of a girl; this is the Lady Me, or Ashildir. On Beganahr, they called her the Portrait-Girl, or the Abomination.

"Young lady," Missy says, having figured all this out in less than a second. She puts her sunglasses down with a click. "Surely your parents told you not to talk to strangers. Rule still applies, even when you're on a beach. I could be some kind of sandwitch.Donut talk to me." Missy chuckles to herself. "Bagel," she adds. "Where are your parents?"

The Abomination with the face of a girl sneers. "Just don't want you dying of heatstroke, whatever." She strides off, feet sinking into the sand, hair waving in the wind.

Missy watches her go, then flops back onto her deckchair. Puts her sunglasses back on, headphones in. Uses the reflection in her music player screen to observe. Watches the girl walk down the beach, step onto the street. Look over her shoulder, step into a 1950s diner that has no place on the beach in 2007. The diner vanishes.

Missy frowns, turns her music back up and closes her eyes. The Doctor wakes with a start.

"What's going on?" he asks. "Missy." He reaches out, pokes her with one finger. "Missy?"

Missy stirs, takes a headphone out. "What is it?"

"Did you hear something?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Your guitar just fell. Must have been that."

 

*** * ***

 

Day nine rolls around.

They're back on his TARDIS, working in the pneumatics room. The Doctor rummages through the toolbox, enjoying the smell of oil and grease, the whirring of the machines around him. Missy's legs are all that's visible from under one of the main oxygen pumps, which stands eighteen feet high and seven feet wide. She's swearing. The Doctor taps her workboot with his own, and she rolls out, grease smeared on her face. He holds out the spanner. She tucks it into her hip pocket, wipes her hands on her navy blue coverall, leaving streaks of dirt and engine oil.

"Do you ever clean under here?" she asks.

"Look, no," the Doctor admits. "I've been quite busy. You know. Daleks, Martians. Someone turned all the dead on planet Earth into Cybermen."

"There's a lot of dust buildup, you don't usually see that in the Type 40s," Missy says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, leaving more grease along her cheekbone. "The Type 60s and up come with those little roller droids to do general maintenance. You should look into that. And your vents are ancient." She takes the proffered rag, wipes her face and hands. "It's probably because you didn't extract and replace your extractor fans."

"There weren't any suitable ones. I had to make the ones I'm using now from scratch."

"I know. But that wouldn't explain this much damage."

Missy rolls back under the machine. He hears her trying to shift something with the spanner.

"This is just ridiculous. It's fused in with the grime. Can you get me a number three steel scourer? Diamond-grit."

"You know, I can do this anytime. I thought we were going to hang out today, relax." The Doctor heads back to the toolbox, finds the scourer. "If you're trying to curry favour with the TARDIS, it's not going to work."

"We are hanging out. Can't hang out if your TARDIS explodes mid-flight. And you know I like the classic models."

"Scourer." The Doctor stoops, holds the small brush out, waits. Waits. Gives up. He puts his boot on the trolley board, pulls it out, hands it to her. Rolls her back under.

"Doctor, the zinc inlays under here have gone green?" Missy asks, and he hears a noise that sounds almost exactly like someone scraping the last of the dust off the final array of silver screws threaded and topped with zinc. "They're _green_. You need to replace them, you'll need to cast entirely new bolts with the right copper alloy mould. How long has it been?"

The Doctor shrugs, pulls a face. "A while."

Missy rolls out, sits up, holds up a screw that would be silver except for the grease and dust coating it, the zinc inlay a sort of vomit-green shade that flakes off on her fingertips. "Explain. How many years?"

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine? About that. Twenty eight."

"Twenty-eight? Twenty-eight." Missy lies back down, scoots under the pump again. "Twenty-eight years, and your TARDIS hates _me_."

"Do you need anything else? I want to put the trivalve filters together again."

"I need you to travel back twenty-eight years and smack yourself in the face."

"That's a yes," the Doctor says. "I'll be in the main workshop."

"Making copper alloy moulds, hopefully," Missy mutters, and then he hears her swear. "Fine."

 

The Doctor is happily screwing the casing back on the last of the filter boxes when Missy scoots in, sitting cross-legged on her trolley-board. Her hands and lower arms are black with grease, and she has a satisfied look on her face. She hops up, rolls the trolley-board under a disused workbench.

"Your clothes are ruined. You can't wash them here," the Doctor says, not looking at her. "TARDIS won't let you."

"I know." Missy waves one hand, swipes the other along his sleeve. "They're coveralls, Doctor, it's their job. I'm not the one working in a wool coat. If you put that off for another thirty years, Doctor, I swear-"

"You'll probably be dead or missing or in jail by then, Missy-"

"I'll come back to haunt you for it. Or break out. That's a promise."

"Oh no, my friend's going to come clean my oxygen pump for me, I'm so _scared_ -"

"I'll make you clean it. No matter what it takes." Missy reaches into her filthy pocket, pulls out a selection of worn and grimy screws, a few bolts and some shards of metal. "You need to replace these within a month, or you might die. I think the Brengans make bullet casings in the alloy you need. Get some, melt them down. Few less bullets in the universe, it's all very you."

"Will do," says the Doctor. He puts the wrench down, shakes the pump. No rattles. He pats it happily.

Missy folds her arms, leans against the workbench, shorter than usual in her workboots. "Why twenty-eight years?"

"A story and a half, for another time. Can you look at the mustard dispenser with me? I've taken it to bits a dozen times, and it keeps jamming. Or exploding. Martha didn't like that."

"No, I hate mustard." Missy finds another rag, wipes her hands again, hoists one of the filter boxes under her arm. "Let's load these up."

"Is this really all you want to do? I can take care of my own TARDIS. Like, I did it for a very long time without Gallifrey, let alone you."

"I like a challenge." Missy puts the filter box on the hovertrolley, and the Doctor does the same.

They quickly load up the dozen boxes, and the Doctor pulls it behind him as they head back to the pneumatics room. Working from opposite sides, they slot the boxes back into the carbon scrubber, which runs ten feet wide and ten feet high. Missy sits on the trolley, thinking, as the Doctor walks them back to the workroom.

"I know why it was twenty-eight years," Missy says suddenly, and the Doctor crashes into the doorframe.

"No you don't," he says, hastily reversing. "I need to go clean my, my cat. I mean, coat."

Missy gets off the trolley, boots clumping on the floor. "I'll fix your mustard machine."

The Doctor weighs up Missy's reaction to hearing more about River - his wife, his mostly-human wife, his mostly human wife who is an archaeologist - versus more centuries of sporadic but violent mustard explosions. He remembers the great flood of '08. He picks up another toolbox and they start walking.

"What did you hear?" he asks, the TARDIS deliberately lengthening the corridors. He can sense it in the air, wonders why.

"I think I have a blister," Missy says, almost to herself. Oh. "Well. I don't tend to listen to rumours, as the evildoers grapevine runs wild and deep and I don't like any of them very much. But when a couple thousand of the universe's worst and richest genocidaires and thieves and rapists and robbers die in a shipcrash on Darillium, you tend to notice."

Their strides have matched up, their steps on the grating echoing down the corridor. The TARDIS looks very bare-bones and industrial in this area, lit up with dim blue wall lights. Usually it reflects his mood, which, until about five minutes previously, had been fairly positive. This is the TARDIS getting more and more nervous the deeper Missy goes. The Doctor reaches out with his free hand, pats the wall as they walk.

"Did they invite you?"

"No, but I heard about the cruise." says Missy. "Even I'm too much for that crowd."

"It's good you didn't go," the Doctor says. "I mean, crash aside, it was a tacky ship."

"Twenty-eight years with River Song on Darrilium," Missy says. "In one place. I mean, I've pulled long cons, but that is something else."

"Lost track of time," the Doctor lies. "It's good sometimes you know, to stop and slow down in one place. I had a vegetable patch. And an orchard. I grew apples."

"Of course you bloody did," says Missy, takes a left. "Sounds idyllic. So I did a little research. On your wife."

"We need to go right," the Doctor calls, and Missy tuts, follows him. "No really, I just lost track. River had quite an extended lifespan. She was, um-"

"Time Lady lite," Missy supplies. "I read scientific journals. It's easier than trying to follow your timeline, and I can do it in my pyjamas. Or in the bath. I like baths now."

"They had a journal on River?"

"Several. After she dies. No names, or images. Primary human-hybrid Type X1A, Marker 16, copyright the Church of the Silence. God, I hate them," says Missy. "I must check out the power vacuum after Gallifrey originally vanished. It must be ripe for opportunity, if they can be a threat on that level."

They reach a door marked _CONDIMENTS_ and Missy lets herself in. The Doctor trails after her. The control switches are next to the doorframe, and he quickly switches all the sauces off. The pumps fall silent, their footsteps echoing as they walk across the concrete floor.

They pass the tomato sauce, the pickles, sweet chilli, tartare, hollandaise, soy. The mustard machine, about the size and shape of a human washing machine, waits at the end of the room, covered in duct tape. Missy starts picking the tape off the hatch carefully while the Doctor watches. The TARDIS shudders.

"Please don't," the Doctor whispers to the wall. Presses his index finger against the rough stone.

Missy takes three quick steps back, hands held up over her face. She tenses, waiting. "I'm trying to help, you stupid - thing."

One drip of mustard emerges from a crack, oozes down the worn casing. Falls to the floor with a splat.

"Right," Missy says, pursing her lips, lowering her arms. She breathes out. "Well if it jams-"

"It's not the pipes, that was the first place I looked, the first few times."

"So, we have to open your mustard machine." Missy sighs. "Do you really like mustard this much?"

"It's the principle of the thing."

The Doctor opens the condiments maintenance cupboard, finds the buckets he keeps in there, puts them below the machine. They finish picking off the tape together, and the Doctor opens the hatch gingerly. Mustard, bright yellow, its odour stinging their eyes, floods out. The buckets catch most of it. They move the buckets off to the side, and the Doctor gets the pressure washer out of the same cupboard, sprays it inside the machine until it's relatively clean, just very wet. Yellow-tinted water washes out onto the floor, sloshes up against their boots.

Missy sniffs, pulls gloves out of her pocket, kneels and looks right inside the machine.

"You probably just haven't cleaned it _twenty-eight years_ ," she mutters. "Do you have a hat? Goggles?"

The Doctor rummages in the toolbox. "Not in here."

"Euchh - mustard just got on my neck."

"I have rags."

"This isn't going to be a rag kind of job."

He hears her grumbling, and takes a seat on the toolbox, watches Missy shuffle deeper inside, her head and torso completely inside the machine. Missy reaches into a pocket, pulls out a pencil torch and shines it around.

"Learning about your hybrid lady-wife could make this go a lot faster," Missy says, her voice muffled. "Please, regale me." There's a banging noise, then the gloopy noises of dripping slime. "I think it's the pressure valve, I need a flathead electro-screwdriver. Or your sonic." Another bang. "Actually no, it needs to be the electro-screwdriver. Nine-bit. Doctor. Doctor? Are you staring at my - "

The Doctor shakes himself. "What? No?"

Missy emerges, her hair streaked with yellow bits of mustard. She glares at him.

"Nine-bit, flathead. My eyes are watering from the fumes."

The Doctor quickly gets up, fishes through the toolbox, finds what she's after. "Nine-bit. Sorry. But yes, twenty eight years on Derillium. It was nice. We had our own house, with a porch. We'd sit out there most nights and have dinner. The TARDIS was in the backyard. River wanted to get a dog, we ended up with two cats. Well, five, over the whole period."

"Not a dog person, this time?"

"I've always preferred cats."

"Same." Missy crawls back into the machine.

"We did a lot of travelling, but kept it to the same era. Space, not time. Saw her parents a few times, from a distance, but that was it."

"You knew her parents?"

"Missy, you don't even want to know." The Doctor drops his face into his hands. "Remember that weird old limerick from home, about before Rassilon insisted on genetic line tracing? Borusa liked it."

"The one with the Seven Keys and the midget - "

"No, the one about the betrothed who tries to marry two mad people at once but it turns out one of the people he's trying to marry is his other wife's parent? And then it turns out he's mad, too? Less extreme, but - "

"You can't see my face, but it's disgusted," Missy says, and sniffs. "There's no leaks in here, at least."

"I met her mother first. Well, I met River first, but I knew Amy and Rory better, first. Then I knew River better. Amy and Rory died. Sort of. It was kind of confus - "

There's a whirring sound from inside the machine. "It smells, so bad in here," Missy says flatly, and then the whirring starts again, stops. 

"You used to like mustard. You had it on everything."

"Only on the even-numbered bodies, and I think my first regeneration," Missy says. "Can you find the scourer again? Just have it ready. Maybe not the same one as the filter room."

"Does that count as zero, one or two to you? Your family counted bodies differently to mine."

"Oh. I guess odd numbers then. No no, you know what it was?" Missy bangs on something. "I liked it on everything when I was pregnant."

The Doctor clenches his jaw, tenses. Wonders where she's going with this. It transpires - nowhere.

"That might have been what started it," Missy continues. "Scourer." The Doctor starts rummaging in the toolbox again. He finds the scourer, just as Missy reaches her hand out behind her. He puts it between her fingers. "Body after that, I hated it again. It just stings my nose."

"You ended up eating it out of the jar at my parent's," he says, pushing. "Brax thought you were on drugs."

"Was that his engagement announcement?"

"Yes. Take two."

"I was."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Prescribed drugs, because I couldn't control my psychic filters, remember? " He does. "One of my hearts kept hurting and I was passing it on to you. So, second body, first regeneration. Which means - huh, there's something dented here - odd-numbered bodies don't like mustard. Ha! This is an odd-numbered body. I need the needlepoint wrench."

The Doctor passes it. There's a grinding noise, then a series of cracks. Missy bangs on something, and the machine judders. The greater TARDIS makes a low whirring noise, on the edge of hearing.

"Shush," the Doctor whispers. "She's helping."

Ha!" says Missy. "Think I got it."

She backs out of the machine, stands, her clothes covered in yellow slime. She crosses the room, tracking mustard all over the floor, hits the sauce switches again. The Doctor watches the machine's insides, which begin to move and pump smoothly, ensuring a supply of mustard to every kitchen on the TARDIS.

"Incredible," he says. "You're a witch."

Missy switches the machine off. "Or I just you know, outscored you in practical mechanics. You better hose it out first." She wipes her hands on her pants again. "I'm going to have a shower. It's in my _hair_."

"Do you want anything to eat?"

"Wash your coat," says Missy. "Stop offering me food, it's weird."

The Doctor cleans the condiments room with the hose, changes the filters in all the other machines, switches them back on. He wanders through the TARDIS halls, watching them morph from industrial grating and wet, concrete walls, to rough-cut wooden floors and whitewashed plaster, to polished hardwood and richly coloured wallpaper. The TARDIS leads him to Missy's room just as she's stepping out of the door, in her skirt and top and stockinged feet, hair still wet.

He shucks his coat, steps past her into her bedroom, stepping over the piles of clothes and books and manuals she's accrued.

"Knock!" Missy calls, as he throws his coat into her laundry chute. "I could have, sex toys or drugs or alcohol in there or something. Oh, Qonsunganian mushrooms. Add that to the list of things we need to do together."

"Vacuum," he replies, gesturing at the mess on the floor. "You've only been here a week."

"We've been busy," Missy says, and he closes the door behind him, joins her in the corridor.

"Did we ever finish that film?" she asks. "The one where all the good guys died and the villain wins?"

"What, Star Wars? Missy, that's only the third film of fifteen, he doesn't-"

"I want to see how it ends," she says, and they head to one of the cinema rooms.

Missy sits on the edge of her seat, takes a bottle of some kind of hair cream in her pocket. The Doctor watches her working it through her hair.

"Why?"

Missy shrugs. "Smells nice."

The Doctor starts the film, sits next to her. Missy holds up the comb. The Doctor gives her a look. She wiggles it.

"Are you a cat this time?"

"I fixed your mustard machine."

Missy wiggles the comb again. The Doctor grumbles, takes it off her. Missy twists in her seat and the Doctor drags the comb through her hair. After a few strokes, he gives up.

"Sit on the floor," he says. "This is kind of tangled."

"Yeah I know, it took me ages to figure out how to look after so much hair. And, you know," says Missy, putting a cushion down on carpet, kneeling on it. "Mustard. And probably the beach. But mustard. I mean, really?"

"Hush." The Doctor starts combing. "Do you want to fast-forward?" Her hair is long and dark against her neck, cool and damp on his fingers.

"No, I like seeing Anakin being all whiny and useless. It makes - ow - him getting set on fire - ow - worth it."

"And you're okay with watching him get burned alive. Hm." The Doctor unpicks a knot in her hair. "This is longer than I expected." Her hair cream smells like oranges, and something underneath, sweet but not overpowering. "Do you reckon you'll head back to your TARDIS soon?"

"Oh, do you want me to go?" Missy says, a strange note in her voice.

"No, no," says the Doctor. "Where's your brooch?"

"In my room." Missy pokes his foot. "Are you bored?"

"No, this has been really nice," the Doctor says. "Genuinely. Stay as long as you want, if the TARDIS will let you." He smooths a hand over the top of her head. "Thanks for all your help. We could go back to the beach if you wanted."

"I'm still finding sand in strange places. No thanks." Missy leans against his shin, rests her head on his knee. He keeps combing. All the knots are almost gone. "Dinner and a show? Aren't you sick of cooking?"

"Well, when I'm alone I do tend to live off sandwiches. And beans."

" _Beans_. Just when I think you can't get any more human. Ow."

"Sorry."

"If I'm honest, I eat a lot of instant meals. I get distracted."

"Same," the Doctor says, runs her hair through his fingers. "You're done." His fingers smell like oranges.

The Doctor hands Missy the comb. She moves back up onto the couch, runs her hands through her hair, nods to herself.

"Well. There's this really nice bistro on - no, I don't think they do anything good without meat. There's. Oh!" Missy grabs his forearm, lets go quickly. "Thomas Jefferson."

"I went to Montecello once, and I never, ever want to repeat that, see that again -"

"No, he's got a standing invitation for me in France. 1780-something. Lovely man. I have a plus one. You can be my plus one."

"I don't _like_ Thomas Jefferson."

"You've never _met_ Thomas Jefferson. Honey, if you discounted everyone in all of time who partook in practises - "

"I know, I know," the Doctor says. "Not today. Please, not today."

"Fine. He reminds me of you, to be honest."

The Doctor pauses. "How so?"

"Terrible taste in outfits. Doesn't know how to comb his own hair. Self-righteous. That said, he hates the sound of his own voice. You're not that similar."

Ignoring her, the Doctor thinks. "We could just stay in, I suppose," he says. "Netflix and chill."

"I'm not sure either of us know what that means. I've heard things."

"Hmm."

"We sure have been playing a lot of board games recently," Missy says. Side-eyes the Doctor. "Monopoly is off the table?"

"I thought we were watching a film. You always win Monopoly." The Doctor pointedly turns the film up. "How do you always get Mayfair?"

"You don't even like this movie," Missy says.

The Doctor turns it up again, puts his arm up along the back of the couch. Missy leans carefully against his side, puts her stockinged feet up on the table. Curls and uncurls her toes. The Doctor tips his head slightly, enjoying the smell of her hair. He feels curiously tense, as if they're on the precipice of something, and he vaguely hopes it isn't sex. Still. He waits, and nothing happens. They manage to get through seven minutes of the film in silence, then,

"I might sleep in your room tonight," Missy says conversationally.

Pointedly not reacting, the Doctor stares at the TV. "Why?" he asks.

Missy shrugs. "Just enjoying that you're such a cuddler this time around."

"I am not a cuddler," says the Doctor, feeling his accent turn especially Scottish. "But fine. If you want. Thanks for asking this time, I suppose."

"Good," says Missy, claps her hand on his thigh and stands.

"I'm not tired now," the Doctor says.

"That's nice, dear," Missy says. "I'm going to the music room. I haven't tried out all the pianos yet." She makes to leave the room, then stops. "Wait, I've been thinking."

"No?" the Doctor guesses.

"We were getting some odd looks on the beach, which you probably didn't notice, the other day."

The Doctor raises an eyebrow.

"One oddly-dressed person is a lone weirdo, two is for gossip," she says. "As a master of disguise - " she waves her hands about herself, wiggling her fingers. "I think it might be worth considering if we actually follow the rules of time for once and dress appropriately. For the region." 'Region' here in Gallifreyan actually meant something closer to 'the place, time and class we find ourselves in.'

"But I like my clothes," the Doctor says.

"You're talking to me, Doctor, I know. I think it's worth considering if we want to lie low. Just on the higher planets and societies, really. Where word could get to someone, who could get to someone. Could get to the Time Lords."

"I'll think about it," says the Doctor, and Missy leaves. He rubs his fingers together. He switches the film off.

 

*** * ***

 

Later, with Missy still off doing her own thing, the Doctor finds River's diary and takes it to his room; sits on his bed reading it slowly, fingers tracing River's familiar handwriting. He's read it a million times, and River read it to him over their time on Darillium. Still. Imagines how River's voice would sound, reading out certain passages, remembers the curve of her lips as she recited a particularly funny paragraph. There's a few passages that mention Clara; these he marks for later perusal. He's too tense tonight.

Eventually, he tucks the diary into his bedside table drawer, finds his nightshirt, climbs into bed. Lies in the near-dark, not sure if he's waiting to fall asleep, or just waiting. Turns out, he's just waiting.

MIssy knocks lightly on the door, pauses on the third knock. Adds a fourth.

"It'll be a long time before that's funny," the Doctor calls, and she opens it.

Missy crosses the room quietly, lifts the covers and slips in. Lies down. The Doctor can feel her staring at him. He turns his back to her, closes his eyes again. The blankets rustle, the mattress dips.

"I had twenty-eight years of joy with River," he says quietly. "A wonderful life, and I loved her very much. I don't need you digging at it. I don't _want_ you digging at it."

Listens to Missy clicking her teeth together, wishes she'd stop. He can smell the orange from her hair still. Finally, Missy sighs heavily, rolls over.

"I wasn't digging. I was merely curious."

"I don't ask what you get up to in your off-hours, unless it's clear you want me to."

"'M not sorry."

"You never are," the Doctor slides closer to the edge of the bed, lets his arm dangle off. "Are you jealous?"

"Whenever am I not? I just wonder though. Archaeologist. And mostly human. I don't understand, how - "

"You said you'd sleep in here. Emphasis on _sleep_."

Blissful silence. For thirty-six seconds. 

"Are you going to gag me again?" Missy asks quietly.

"Not tonight. Another time." The Doctor wonders why the TARDIS even let Missy find his room. "If you want."

"I'm gonna hold you to that. But it has been a hell of a day. You know - "

"You know, Missy? I don't."

The Doctor shoves his head under the pillow. Counts down from a hundred by threes. Brings his head out, slowly. Feels that Missy's breathing has evened out, her pulse has lowered. She's snoring, a tiny bit. He settles in again, lies on his back, rests his hands on his chest.

He is a cuddler. River had teased him mercilessly about it. Most nights of his life have been spent alone, so he latches on when someone's in there with him. He likes the warm. Pathetic. But still.

The Doctor presses the pads of his thumbs together, drums them against his sternum. Looks over at Missy, and she frowns in her sleep. The Doctor tries to quiet his mind as she twitches. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down, imagines calm oceans and babbling brooks and red fields, silent and standing tall and radiating with summer heat. Tries to be still. Tries too late.

Missy wakes with a start, sits straight up with a small gasp. Glances around, confusion clear on her face. They're both out of practise at this part of sleeping near each other. Missy blinks across at him, and he gazes back, expressionless. Understanding dawns on her face.

"C'mere, you big sap," she mumbles, moving across the mattress, pressing her chest against his back.

She throws one arm around his ribs, shoves the other awkwardly under the pillow. The Doctor doesn't move. Missy rests her hand on his chest, rubs small circles between his hearts.

"Can I trust you, Missy?" he murmurs.

"I thought we were sleeping," she whispers, lips tickling just below his ear. She kisses his temple, briskly, like they do this every night. Lies down again, her arm still around his ribs. "Go to sleep, Doctor."

 

*** * ***

 

Missy comes to his bed for the last nights of her stay, sometimes when he's asleep, sometimes before he gets there himself. He likes those nights. The bed is warm when he gets in.

On her last morning there, the Doctor wakes up first, feeling strange, hot, his skin too tight. He realises he's hard against Missy's soft thigh, moves awkwardly away from her sleeping form. Turns onto his other side, the sheets rustling loudly in the quiet room. Missy clings to his back, mumbles something, breath cool on his neck, and the Doctor drifts off again.

He wakes up, Missy sitting against the bed-head, trying her hand at _Anne of Green Gables_ again. She casts a meaningful look down at him, raises an eyebrow. Her glasses don't help. The Doctor curls up, gathers the blankets around himself.

"I see you're up," Missy says dryly. 

"Sorry," he says. "It's a proximity thing. You remember."

Missy nods, goes back to her reading.

"You're off today, aren't you."

"Yes," says Missy. "But I've had a wonderful time. I'll probably see you quite soon."

The Doctor wriggles over, presses his face into her hip, not quite sure why he's doing it. Feels Missy's fingers stroking through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear delicately. He reaches under the blankets, finds the edge of Missy's nightshirt, runs it through his fingers, feeling the roughly-stitched hem. Pulls it up until there's smooth, warm skin next to his face. Settles in. Missy continues tracing the shell of his ear. He listens as she turns a page, tuts, flicks the rest of the pages through her fingers.

"My dear chap," Missy says. "This is seriously the worst thing I've ever read, why do you have it in your room?"

"Stay for breakfast." The Doctor doesn't move, doesn't want to say please.

"I always do."

 

 

*** * ***

 

With Missy absent from his life, he travels around alone, finding himself on a lot of water planets. The TARDIS seems to be steering him clear of war, which he appreciates.

At a gallery on the oval planet of Estren, he overhears discussion of some mysterious corporation working its way through a series of planets on the opposite side of the system. Their new CEO is a wunderkind, it seems, and once it takes the markets, each planet's governments fall like dominoes. Willingly.

The Doctor takes another glass of champagne off the tray as it passes him, circles closer to the discussion.

"The Proclamation will investigate, of course," says one of the women. "Though personally, my money is on that alliance of planets brewing in the Nova-Prime Quadrant."

"I agree," says her companion. "The Proclamation only wishes to deal with violent invasions. Economics, they have no head for. I've no doubt half the Proclamation Senate has money in the Corporation."

The Doctor leaves the gallery, leaves the planet, leaves the galaxy and settles on the other side of the universe. He sits in his TARDIS, legs hanging out of the door over the infinite void of space. It's very cold.

 

*** * ***

 

It takes forty-five years for the Corporation to collapse, and it seems to happen out of nowhere. He watches it happen in two months. The Corporation fails across eleven planets, making currencies worthless, leaving billions jobless and homeless. Social services and infrastructure, all under the rule of the Corporation collapse. The Shadow Proclamation and the Nova-Prime Alliance does their best to provide aid. The Doctor visits the First Great and Bountiful Human Empire at its peak, raids the coffers and breaking every Time Lord rule ever, delivers a few dozen tonnes of bread and cheese and tins of food and apples and water-filters to some of the planets.

Anonymously.

He feels responsible, though he knows from centuries of experience, that he isn't.

Still. Somehow. Missy finds him with a group of other refugees, eating apples roasted on sticks. They're in the ruins of a sports stadium, sitting around an old oil drum, burning the goalposts for warmth. The other refugees don't recognise Missy - the Corporation's CEO was never seen, never caught - and shuffle aside to make room. She's in a long dark coat and a headscarf; looks like the rest of the poor masses. One of the men around the fire offers her a cheap rollup, which she takes with a thanks.

"Take a seat," the same man says, and Missy leans forward to light it.

"No, she's here for me," the Doctor says, standing. "Good luck to you all."

They nod at him. The Doctor takes Missy's arm, leads her across the field, out of the stadium, into the dark and pitted streets outside. Rubbish is strewn over the roads; shop fronts are burnt out and broken. The Doctor turns to her. She blows out a cloud of smoke, licks her lips. Shifts from foot to foot.

"Why?"

"My executives were prone to nepotism, and after year thirty-six, I neglected to keep an eye out." Missy shrugs, folds her arms. "Things happened. Forty-five years, though. Pretty long con. You should have visited. I knew you were watching."

"So many people are dying."

"Is that why you're here? To make me look? To see if I will recant?"

"You won't," the Doctor says. "I don't want to have this conversation again."

"That makes two of us."

"I just want to ask, Missy - "

Missy takes his roasted apple off him, nibbles on a bit. Pulls a face, gives it back. Takes another drag on her cigarette.

"Missy. If. This isn't an offer, it's a question. If we were together, all the time. If you were always on my TARDIS or I was always on yours. Would this stop? Would you not do this?"

"I don't want to be with you _all the time_."

"That's why it's not an offer."

"I would kill you, my darling," Missy says. "Not metaphorically. That would end in your murder. Or, it would end with me in chains for eternity in your TARDIS, which _would_ kill you, metaphorically speaking. You can't give me to the Time Lords. They'll kill me. Doing that would kill you, too."

"Okay. Still doesn't answer my question," the Doctor says quietly.

"No. I thought that was implied," Missy says "No, I would not stop. I would play my little games. And sometimes, I would win. Sometimes, I would lose. Either way, you would come off worse. I'm not going to change."

The Doctor nods, looks up at the stars. With the power on this planet not working, they shine down brightly, terrifyingly beautiful.

"I might raid my storage rooms," he says. "I've got two dozen telescopes and binoculars everywhere. They're two-eyed on most of these planets, right? I don't need them. It might be a bit diverting."

Missy takes one last drag on her cigarette. Drops her cigarette on the ground and crushes it under her boot. The sound of her shoe scuffing the grimy concrete drags the Doctor from his reverie.

"How do you care so much?" Missy asks. "I'm going, back to my TARDIS."

"I figured that out," the Doctor says. "I met Buddha, and he said - "

"Ugh, him." Missy says. "Who hasn't gone to Earth and met Buddha? It's like Jeremy Clarkson and Moses and Muhammed and what really happened to Amelia Earhart. I'm off."

She turns, walks off into the darkness. Comes back.

"I like the apple," she says, and takes it off him.

"Is the deal still on?" the Doctor says.

"Do you want it to be? I don't understand why you're surprised I did this."

"I'm not, I just - hoped."

"Your friendship hasn't changed me in thousands of years, Doctor. Why would it start now? Because we're the only two left free? Because you're the only friend I have? God. Don't give me that look, it's been my reality for thousands of years. Me, you, and the voice in the cell next door."

The Doctor sighs heavily. "I guess - I have to hope. I wouldn't be me if I didn't."

Missy bites the apple and nods, chewing. "Keep hoping. Hope against hope. You never know."

She leaves him on the darkened planet. The Doctor unloads the telescopes, the binoculars. Digs up a few more tins of food. Gets the power working. Everything else, the people will have to do for themselves. 

 


	4. reasonable requests

 

 

 

> _We will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry._
> 
>  

The Doctor leans against the console, looks around the quiet TARDIS. Looks out the doors, at the silver sand-plains of Cordementha V. There's something dripping, deep inside the TARDIS. He shoves his hands into his pockets, strides down into the corridors. Fixes the drip.

Later, the Doctor returns toting one of his guitars - a red Rickenbacker 370/12 - and his Magpie amp. The sound echoes across the plains. One of the local animals sticks its snout around the door, snuffles curiously at the TARDIS floor. The Doctor grins, plays an F-Sharp chord that makes its ears (all four of them) prick up. He chuckles. Starts riffing and watches the rest of the herd gather round the door, teetering on their stilt-like legs, watching him with their big, wet black eyes.

"It's not so bad," he says, and turns the amp up.

 

 *** * ***  

 _Visit Five_  

 It takes a few months, and a couple of near-misses. UNIT catches Missy and she escapes before the Doctor can even turn around. He breaks first, for different reasons. Calls Missy, because there's no one else.

"Remember how you told me to replace those screws or I'd die?" he rests his hand on the console, toggles one of the switches. Nothing. The click echoes around the darkened console room.

"Just go visit the Brengans, Doctor."

"I'm not….I can't," says the Doctor, glancing around. "The uh, TARDIS isn't letting me outside."

The line crackles. Missy must be very far away. "Where are you?"

The 'where' she uses in Gallifreyan encompasses both physical coordinates and the local time on that planet, as well as requesting the inclusion of a local landmark, if one is available. It's slang, more or less, from their Academy days, and the Doctor smiles grimly. Gives the planet - Klewahr - and the local time. Tells her about the large clock he can hear chiming from inside, because even the scanner isn't working.

"Great. I know that village," Missy says. "I'll see you soon."

It takes them nine hours to open the TARDIS doors, working from both sides, and it's nighttime when they finally swing apart. Missy tosses down her scanner with a grunt, silhouetted against the moonlight. She smooths down her hair, but the loose strands wave in the sea breeze.

"I'll go to the Brengans right now - " the Doctor begins.

Wordlessly, Missy reaches into her inner pocket, holds out an envelope full of screws between her index and middle fingers. The Doctor takes it, put it in his own coat.

"Thank you," he says. "Are you coming in? Or do I have to drag you?"

The TARDIS buzzes angrily when she steps inside. Missy steps out again, clenching her jaw and her fists. The Doctor steps out after her, the evening annoyingly balmy and pleasant, the light breeze tinged with the smell of the ocean. He keeps one foot inside, remembering the TARDIS could well easily slam the doors shut again. He's not falling for that one again.

"There's um," she says. Points. "There's a nice church. In the village. The ceremony's open air, and it goes till midnight. There's a buffet. I'll wait for you, till you've put those in. It shouldn't take long, even for you."

It takes the Doctor forty minutes, and he talks to the TARDIS the entire time, asking her not to lock him out again. He finds the crowded church garden just before eleven, where Missy is sitting on a bench pretending to read the local paper, ignoring the families and people milling around her. There's a paper plate with the remnants of some potato salad on her lap.

"Hey," the Doctor says, sitting beside her, looks at her intently. His voice is tired. "Hi. Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

Missy turns, opens her mouth, closes it. She breathes out slowly through her nose.

"Help me with this crossword," Missy says finally.

 

They don't talk about their last meeting.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Six_  

Missy comes round toting a case of supplies, and they take a few hours to replace most of the worn-out cabling in the console room. The TARDIS is reluctant to have her, and that's putting it nicely. After the fourth electric shock, Missy throws down the wires, kicks the console.

"Fine. Fine! I'll leave you to it!" she shouts, and storms off into the hallways.

The Doctor rolls out from under the console. "Missy?"

"Just leave it!" she calls over her shoulder.

There's a crash as she throws her pliers at something. The Doctor winces and the TARDIS shudders. He stands clumsily, puts down his own pliers, taps the console.

"You're not helping," he says to the TARDIS, a little more harshly than he'd like.

Sighs heavily. He rolls back under, unscrews another panel. "I want this to work for all three of us. I really think she wants this to work. She hasn't got anyone else either."

The TARDIS is silent. The panel comes loose, and the Doctor reaches inside, finds another set of worn wires. He clips them out, rolls out from underneath the console. Finds the right sort of wire, strips it, rolls back under.

"I'll be finished soon. You know, Missy brought all this round. And I checked it over. You're safe. It's going to be fine."

No response. The Doctor attaches the new wires and screws the panel back in. Raps it with his knuckles. The TARDIS makes a low whir that echoes around the console room.

"Yeah, I figured," he mutters. Lies there for a moment, looking up at the workings of the console. "You let her in last time. That was my fault, and I'm sorry."

Silence. Distantly, he's sure he hears Missy smashing something else.

"That better not be my guitars."

He tilts his head, listens more intently. No, she's found the fine china room.

The Doctor rolls out from under the console, starts packing up the tools. He slides the toolbox back into its slot, clambers up the stairs to his armchair and sits down heavily. Presses one hand to the wall.

"Missy knew me first, remember," he tells the TARDIS. "She's possessive. You're both possessive. I care about both of you, and I can look after myself." The Doctor pauses, swears he can still hear Missy stomping around. "If you're pulling a labyrinth, please stop. She did fix the mustard machine, and we both know that's a miracle in itself."

There's a distinct change in the air pressure and the temperature rises a few degrees.

"Thanks, dear," the Doctor says, knocking on the wall. "I appreciate it."

He stays seated for a few more minutes, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth. Brushes his fingertips along one of the bookshelves in easy reach, enjoys the smooth polish of the wood. Then he stands, claps his hands.

"We're going to replace the scanner screen eventually," the Doctor says, heads down the stairs and out into the hallways of the TARDIS. He traces his fingers along the walls as he walks. "Yes, we. It's a two-person job. I still need to find the right kind of crystal. Just so you're prepared."

The Doctor checks the crystal room - mostly intact, the music room - safe and sound and mostly tidy, and three kitchens before stopping, turning on the spot and frowning. He checks his watch, goes back into the last kitchen and makes two coffees. Then he takes one of the spiral staircases upwards, feet loud on the metal steps.

The TARDIS has a dozen or so biodomes, all different slices of outdoors from around the universe. It takes him a few attempts, but he finds Missy smoking off one of the balconies that overlooks the tangled scrub of the Moon of Troromon, where the trees and ferns all sprout purple, orange and yellow fragrant blooms. It's warm out here as well, more humid than he'd like, and the scent of the flowers fills the air.

Missy doesn’t turn around as he approaches, merely holds a cigarette over her shoulder between two of her fingers.

“No, thanks,” the Doctor says, putting their coffees down on the small garden table with a clink. “I thought you quit.”

Missy turns, leans on the railing and stares through him. She bites the end of her thumb, eyes blank. Puts the cigarette back in her mouth.

"TARDIS won't like it," the Doctor says, waiting.

“You used to share my pipes,” Missy says faintly, as if she didn't hear him. "I don't know what happened to all of them. I had one with an ivory handle. I thought I left some here." She takes a drag, finally meets his gaze. "Do you get more sanctimonious as the years go by? Or was it your humans? Or Gallifrey, burning?" Missy exhales smoke in a cloud.

It's weirdly attractive, which the Doctor tries to ignore. "Can we talk about something else?"

"It was the humans, wasn't it. Nicotine stains on the fingers eventually go out of style."

The Doctor sits on one of the deckchairs Zoe must have dragged out here years ago, puts his feet up, takes his coffee and stirs it. Missy stays standing, turns back to look over the garden. 

The Doctor drinks slowly, studies the shape of her legs under her skirt. The tip of Missy's cigarette glows dully red and he can just smell the flowers under the smoke. She flicks ash over the railing, crosses her legs at the ankle. The Doctor taps his ring against his mug, enjoys the clinking noise. Takes another sip.

“You could just ask,” Missy says finally.

“Fine, I will,” says the Doctor.

Missy turns, cigarette in one hand, cupping the elbow of that arm in her other hand. Her eyebrow quirks. It’s a carefully chosen pose. The Doctor points at her coffee, and she nods.

"What did you break?" he says.

Missy shakes her head. "Nothing important. Some plates. I'm sorry." She clenches her jaw. "I'm _trying_."

"I know." The Doctor takes another drink. "You're doing well. I think this is my fault." It's not, it's both of theirs. It's just easier to take the blame.

She raises an eyebrow. "Do, go on."

"We've spent much more time, in here on the TARDIS, than anywhere else. We should go out more, not let the tension build between you two, between us. It was - " the Doctor looks into his coffee-cup. "Thoughtless of me."

"Overly optimistic is probably a better way of phrasing that." Missy leans back on the railing. "Do you have anything in mind? Earth, as a wild first guess."

The Doctor thinks. One of the better parts of travelling with Missy is that she's not by any means delicate. That is. She has all the knowledge he's ever had access to, the same know-how, the same ability, shared by no other race, to read how time can ebb and flow. And a much better ability to push into the morally grey areas without feeling guilty about it. He's taken at least eight companions to Nazi Germany, accidentally and deliberately; seven of them suggested assassinating Hitler.

When the Doctor and the Master visited there as youths, they were both just content to watch the Valkyrie plot fail. It's not ideal, but a near miss was good enough for his conscience, and for the web of time.

The Doctor cups his chin in his hand, thinks of all the times he knows the Master has seen over the years. Missy smokes, watches him think. He makes up his mind.

“The first tank battle on Earth,” the Doctor says thoughtfully. “Took place in April 1918 near Villers-Bretonneux.”

“Never been there,” Missy says. "1914 to 1919 is just so muddy, I've never liked it."

“We could go have a look.”

Missy gives him a strange look. “You actually want to go and _watch_ a World War One battle? Who are you and what have you done with the Doctor?”

The Doctor sighs heavily, gives in and holds out his hand. Missy puts the denuding cigarette into it, and he takes a drag, hands it back. Smoke tickles his throat and his lungs as he holds it in. He lets his breath out slowly, watches Missy put the cigarette back between her lips. She raises her eyebrows at him.

“I thought you might be interested-”

“Oh believe me. I am.”

“It’s a fixed point,” the Doctor says. "Pretty much all of it. Except what the Black Hand did, Europe was a powder keg."

“Most of World War One is. I see it all with this great sparkly green tint,” says Missy. “It smells like the concept of industry.”

“It might do good, for both of us. To get out of the TARDIS. Be good for the TARDIS, to have a break."

Missy perches on the end of his deckchair, stubs the cigarette out on the floor and steps on it. The noise of her shoe grinding into the concrete makes the Doctor grimace. Missy takes her coffee, drains half the cup in one go and coughs. “Counter offer.”

The Doctor makes a ‘go on’ gesture.

“Still tanks, still 1918. Le Hamel. 93 minute show, clear beginning, middle and end, apparently, and I know for a fact there is an excellent bistro in town a couple of decades beforehand. It’s a fixed point too, the Allies needed Hamel to practise their assault for der Schwarze Tag. Need the Black Day to defeat the Germans, so Germany and the other great Empires can fall, so the Weimar Republic fails, so Hitler rises, so World War II,” she recites, slipping between informal German and formal Gallifreyan and a bit of Northern Osnansch as she goes.

"Humanity learns to split the atom and discovers DNA almost a century before original best-case projections, letting them make their way out into the universe in the decades that follow while other major players in the Sol region are left in the dust." Missy rolls her eyes. "Typical success story. You know how it is."

The Doctor thinks for a moment, finishes his coffee and puts the cup on the table.

“Sounds good.”

“I thought so.”

They sit for a minute. Missy rests her hand on his knee briefly, squeezes, then lights another cigarette. The smoke curls up between them.

"Do you want one?"

The Doctor shakes his head, and Missy quirks her head, twists her lips. He says airily, "I quit. It's not smoking if you don't light it yourself."

“I’m quitting,” Missy says. “Attempt 412. It’s not like I can’t just get another pair of lungs.”

“It’ll definitely stick this time,” the Doctor says dryly.

“Because you’re so good at avoiding the things that are bad for you,” Missy drawls, and exhales.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Seven_

Missy moves a chess piece.

The Doctor studies the board. "This is a terrible place to concentrate." Outside, perfectly timed, something explodes. He winces.

"It's fine."

"I said outside the TARDIS. I don't think everywhere we go needs to be occupied by a foreign power."

"It's theming."

Missy grins as the Doctor looks up at her. He moves a piece. The noise - shouting, screaming, the occasional gunshot - outside the window gets louder.

"Did we really have to come to this time period to play _chess_?"

"Prague is lovely. 1968 was a great year," Missy says, taking one of his pawns. The Doctor scowls at her. "Fine. We'll leave when the tanks arrive."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Eight_

"You're late. You're never late for me. Is the TARDIS not moving again?"

"She's moody."

"Fine, where are you? Please don't say London, early 21st-century."

"It's not then."

"I'm waiting."

"…Cardiff."

"You're such an idiot.

"No, I'm not. I just - "

No, you know what you are? You're a half-wit."

"I'm not."

"Hey, hey hey. It's a compliment. At least fifty percent of you is positively _brimming_ with wit."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Nine_

Missy finds him leaning against a lamppost, watching a work-crew make their way back onto the bridge skeleton, follows his gaze. Looks out over Sydney Harbour, squinting in the sun and the breeze, watching the waves. Missy hipchecks him.

"Your turn to pick," she says. "And you know how I feel about Australians."

"Right. So. How would you like to work on a pitcrew at the 1976 Moroccan Grand Prix?"

"Is it my birthday?" Missy asks. "Wait, no. It's not MacLaren, is it?"

"It's Ferrari," the Doctor says, and watches her fist pump. He frowns. " _Is_ it your birthday?"

"It _is_ my birthday," Missy says, as if she's just remembered. "Huh."

"Happy birthday, then. You get on with Niki, don't you?"

"I get on with him better than you," says Missy.

"You're so similar," the Doctor says to himself.

Missy hipchecks him again.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Ten_

 It takes thirteen hours, four trips to three planets and two sets of anti-static, micro-fibre diamond-threaded gloves, but they successfully replace the crystal in his scanner screen.

"Looks great," the Doctor says, running his thumb across the dials along the side. "It looks amazing."

"Should I leave you two alone?" Missy asks.

 

 *** * ***  

_Visit Eleven_

In a random, grey alleyway in 2020s London, he finds Missy's TARDIS and knocks on the door. She opens it in opera gear from the 1870s, clutching a small leather bag.

"We never finished the Ring Cycle?" she says, and he holds up his hands. She squints. "We never finished the Ring Cycle."

"When did we _start_ the Ring Cycle?"

"You were about five hundred. Not sure how old I was. Go get dressed. Pack a bag."

The Doctor frowns, points in the direction of his TARDIS. "Why am I packing a bag?"

"Bayreuth Festspielhaus. I got hotel rooms nearby. Legally, and everything." Missy locks her TARDIS door behind her. Her dress is dark green, her hair carefully curled and piled on top of her head. She catches the Doctor's look. "Room _s_. We're going to the performances in 1876. It takes four days. I'm not sharing a room _and_ an opera box with you for four days."

"I can't even remember how it starts," the Doctor says, picking up one of her loose curls between his fingers, pulling it straight and letting it go. It bounces. Missy swats at him, produces the tickets. He examines them. "Oh, we're seeing it from the beginning. Good?"

Missy shrugs. They start walking. "Come on, top hat. Tails. I'd wear them, but it's all a bit Tipping the Velvet these days. And this is such a pretty colour."

"You'd look nicer in blue. Or red."

"That's nice, dear. Duly noted."

They round the end of the alley, and the Doctor's TARDIS is before them. "Right, right," he says, pausing at the door. "You know, jeans were invented in the 1870s as well."

"Not in Bavaria they weren't."

The Doctor steps back into his TARDIS. Missy checks her scanner, which shows a live image of a street about twenty feet away. The diner is still there, seventy years and an ocean out of place. She smirks.

"Missy, who's driving?" the Doctor shouts, poking his head out of the TARDIS.

"Me," Missy says, closing the screen. "I was going to say you, but we never take mine. So, we're taking mine."

"Fine by me."

 

*** * ***

  _Visit Twelve_

"I can't deal with most of the Founding Fathers," the Doctor says. "I partied with them way too hard when I was younger. Hamilton. My God. _Hamilton_." The Doctor finishes lacing up his boot, takes it off the railing. "I'm nearly ready, just let me get my scarf. What season is it when we're going?"

From where she's standing outside the TARDIS, smoking in 1940s summertime Hungary, Missy calls, "Thomas isn't like that. As long as Lafayette isn't with him."

"Is it winter?"

Missy steps into his line of vision, framed by the TARDIS doors, wearing a black overcoat over a purple dress, dark purple leather gloves, and a purple, pearl-embroidered hat. It's all a bit goth, but she makes it work.

"I'll get a proper coat," the Doctor says, shifting uncomfortably in his outfit. "I hate breeches, you know I hate breeches. Did you hate breeches?"

Missy nods, leaning into the TARDIS. "Can you grab my purple scarf?" she calls.

"Hey, I told you not to smoke in here."

*** * ***

1787\. America establishes itself as separate from Britain. The First Fleet departs for Australia. Civil war erupts in the Dutch Republic. Discontent bubbles under the surface in France, about to boil over and bathe the country in blood.

The Doctor sits with Thomas Jefferson in his Parisian drawing room, nursing a brandy and cringing. It had all started with a perfectly civilised lunch with lovely wine and a round of cribbage. Then poker, then cheat. Then, somehow, they'd ended up here, watching Missy and Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, invent what looked like the body shot.

"He's done many great things," Jefferson says apologetically. He's wearing pink breeches, a lemon-yellow shirt and a green coat, his hair an untamed mess. The Doctor feels quietly offended by his outfit, and can't figure out why. "America would not be the way it is today without him."

"Same with Missy," says the Doctor, in the same tone. "Sorry, how did you actually meet her?"

"An issue in Alsace-Lorraine. A swarm of strange wooden beasts came pelting down the street at me and my companions. The Mistress, as she named herself, assisted in their demise with a device that spat flame and burnt them all to dust. I was intrigued, invited her to dinner and we have corresponded since. A remarkable woman."

"Huh," the Doctor says.

Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, pulls off his jacket and tosses it across the room. It's quickly scooped up, smoothed out by one of Jefferson's French servants.

"How did you come to be acquainted with such a fascinating specimen?" Jefferson asks.

"We were at school together," the Doctor says. "Occasionally we travel together, or meet up for a." He tries to describe Missy's modus operandi, gives up. He can't do it for his closest friends, let alone an ideological enemy. "We were at school together. Occasionally we come across similar issues to your wooden beasts and deal with them."

"And her husband doesn't mind? She mentioned her husband was a doctor."

"What husb - " the Doctor squints over the room at Missy's hands. Of course. She's wearing one of her rings on the human wedding finger today. "I guess I'm the husband then."

"You guess?"

"It isn't a Christian marriage. Had it in a far-off land," the Doctor says, waving a hand, looking at his own ring finger. "And we don't always live together. Unconventional is our watchword."

Jefferson shrugs.

"Far be it from me to judge, or expect judgement from you," adds the Doctor, and Jefferson shrugs again.

They watch Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, lick Missy's neck, sprinkle salt on it, and lick it again. Lafayette swigs something from a glass and Missy laughs, beckons the Doctor over.

The Doctor finishes his brandy, puts his glass down heavily. Unbuttons his collar. "You know what, Thomas Jefferson, third President of the United States?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"If you can't beat them, join them."

"I concur, Sir."

 *** * ***  

Paris never changes, not really. The streets are vibrant and full of people and sound and life; the stars shine down. Loud music pours out of pubs and bars, artisans and courtesans run wild. A light snow is beginning to fall, so it hasn't been stamped into slush and made mucky with the filth of the streets. It's pretty. It's blurry.

They're all stumbling - Thomas Jefferson, the Third President of the United States of America,the Mistress, the Doctor and Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette - out of their fifth bar when Thomas slips and falls onto the cobbles. The Doctor, underneath the haze of red wine and brandy and scotch, is tempted to leave him there, but Missy sprawls beside him and laughs her head off in the gutter.

The Doctor senses something, looks to his left, his vision skewed and unfocused. He looks harder, sees a flash of red neon decades too early. He stumbles, tries to organise his legs so he can walk, or at least stumble, towards it. The red light dances, oozes. Paris whirls around him.

" _Doctaaaah_ ," Missy sings.

"Doctor, sir, help me help them, help me," says Lafayette, and starts giggling.

He and Lafayette scoop the Time Lady and future President of the United States off the cobbles and help them over to a bench. The Doctor slumps on the ground next to Missy, rests his forehead on her knees, his head spinning. She holds onto his shoulder.

Lafayette leans to one side, throws up in the gutter. Thomas hoots with laughter, slaps his thighs. Finds a flask in his frock-coat and passes it to the Doctor, who swigs, gives it to Missy. She takes a drink, gives it back to Thomas.

"I didn't know people actually did that," the Doctor says.

"He's adorable," Missy slurs. "Thigh slapping goodness. Game me, gave me a chair once. Swivelley."

"We should have a swordfight," the Doctor says into Missy's lap, pretty sure he's drooling on her skirt. "'Member when we had swordfights."

"Yeah we should have a swordfight. Lafayette, gimme your - " Missy begins.

"Another bar!" declares Thomas, and falls off the bench. "'S so cold."

"No more bars," whines Lafayette, head between his knees.

" _Americans_ ," a passer-by titters.

"We're SCOTTISH!" the Doctor and Missy shout as one, and laugh riotously. Then, they stop.

Missy cups his face, but the Doctor is the one to lean in and press their mouths together. Her lips are warm and chapped against his and she tastes like red wine and salt. Missy pulls back, cradling his face, studies his face with something dark and burning in her eyes. Then, she leans in and kisses him harder, open-mouthed and needy. It's sloppy and they're both on the wrong side of tipsy and his knees are hurting and freezing on the cobbles. His hands are on her waist, sliding under her coat, pulling at her dress. Lafayette has fallen on top of Thomas, Missy's hands are in the Doctor's hair and pulling, her mind blurring onto the edge of his.

"Yes it is," she whispers, kissing him again and again, his lips, his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. "Yes it is, yes it is."

"This is not," the Doctor says into Missy's mouth. "A good idea." He's kissing her back anyway.

 

It's a drunken eight-footed stumble back to Thomas's residence, up and down staircases and down alleys and there's two or three near-misses where someone nearly ends up in the Seine. The Doctor and Missy stumble upstairs to one of Thomas's spare rooms, one of his servants reluctantly showing them and a nauseous Lafayette the way. Missy loses her coat - they trip over that - and the Doctor somehow gets his boots off and they fall over those. Missy shoves him down on the bed. They kiss for a few minutes, slower, Missy shifting on top of him like a snake, the Doctor's hands drifting up and down her back and thighs, kissing at her neck until her skin is tingling. The Doctor pulls back, licks his lips. He frowns.

"What?" Missy asks. She touches his face. "You right?"

"Yes, yes," the Doctor says, leaning up and kissing her again. "You just smell, _really_ good."

"You're _so_ drunk."

"You're drunker. I was playing catch-up."

The Doctor rolls them both onto their sides. She presses their foreheads together.

"You're so soft," the Doctor says, hands roving, one to her waist, the other delving into her hair. Missy bites his jaw. "Well, most of you. It's so nice. Are we going to have sex?"

Missy props herself up on her elbows, leans over him, with one on each side of his head. She looks down at him with a quirk to her lips. The Doctor meets her gaze, grins, laughs. She dips her head and their mouths meet again. The Doctor starts to unlace her dress, brushing his fingers down her sternum. He licks up her neck.

"So drunk," she says. "So, so drunk."

"And to you," says the Doctor. He leans up and kisses her, slipping a hand inside her dress, resting it over her right heart.

"I want to be on top," Missy says, and rolls off him, kicks off her own shoes. "'S a yes, by the way. That's a yes. I don't care what you think."

The Doctor helps Missy with her dress; leaves her to deal with her underclothes while he extricates himself from his own shirt and pants. It's a struggle. Missy keeps working away at her underwear. That's a struggle as well.

"Ah, the Regency," the Doctor says, and leans over, helps her unlace bits and pieces of fabric. Gives up, watches her undress with interest. "Another thing to hate Napoleon for. Or George. _Both_. All of them."

"Wrong country for the Regency. Hold this. Ready?" Missy rips something padded off her chest. "Too early."

"Is this - " he says again, and Missy leans down, licks into his mouth.

"Yes it is, it is," she says, cradling his head, staring into his eyes. "You're so beautiful."

"Your eyes are blue. Have you had blue eyes before? They're so blue."

The Doctor slips his fingers down between her thighs, drags his fingers through the wetness there and rubs her clit with sweeping circles. Missy makes small pleased noises as she kisses him. Finally, she straightens up, guides herself onto his cock with a moan the Doctor matches. Missy leans forward, sighing softly.

"My Doctor," she whispers in his ear, licks the side of his face.

She moves her hips and groans at the changing pressure inside her. The Doctor raises his hands to her waist, slides them up to palm her warm breasts. The Doctor wants her to move, holds himself back and she does, lifting herself off his cock and sliding on again, her eyes closing in pleasure. She starts slowly, whimpering as the Doctor teases her nipples. Missy tightens her legs around the Doctor's hips, the bed creaking underneath them, Missy biting her lip. They move like this for a few minutes, gasps turning to groans. Missy laughs, and the Doctor does too.

"Don't wake the President," he says, and Missy laughs harder, shrieks with surprise when the Doctor struggles up, bites her neck.

Missy moves faster still, her breath coming in gasps, breasts bouncing. The Doctor cants his hips under hers, drops his hands to her thighs and grips them.

"Missy, come on," he whispers. "Don't tease."

"I'll tease however I want," she says, tensing around him. She lifts herself off his cock, slides her own fingers into her cunt, gasps. "Is this teasing? Is it?"

The Doctor flips them, Missy on her back, and pushes into her. She moans into his shoulder as he fucks her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. Missy pants as he licks the sweat on her neck, her nails dragging down his back, his fingers twisting in her hair. It's rough and it's hard and Missy wants more. The headboard thumps loudly against the wall. There's a returning bang on the plaster that neither of them notice. Missy cries his name on nearly every stroke, whimpering, gripping at his shoulders. The Doctor holds his face against her neck, panting, repeating her name in answer, driving her closer and closer to the edge -

She comes with a yell, and the Doctor follows, his strokes going from solid to erratic until he buries himself inside her. She brings their lips together, gasping, kisses him as he comes, groaning against her mouth.

They kiss messily for a few minutes, Missy grinding against his thigh, whimpering, desperate for more release.

"I want - " she whispers, and the Doctor rolls over onto his back, gives her a tired grin.

"I will not being doing - " he says, then stops, laughs, kisses her. "'M not gonna be doing that again tonight."

Missy whines, guides his hand between her legs. Fingers slicked with the mess there, he slides them into her cunt, fucks Missy with his hand as she brings herself off again with a quiet sigh.

The Doctor wipes his hand on one of the sheets. Missy drops kisses across his face and chest, humming happily, only stops when the Doctor cups her chin, tilts her head to meet his eyes. They find where the blankets have been kicked down to the end of the bed, and the Doctor pulls them up to cover both of them. Missy rests her head against his chest, runs a hand across his ribs. The Doctor laughs again, lazily.

"What?"

"This is like, it looks," the Doctor says, and makes a wide gesture, brings his hand back in to hold her waist. It takes a great deal of concentration for him to get the next part of his sentence out. "Aggressively heterosexual for us."

Missy snorts, covers her face with her hand. "It is." She reaches up, brings their faces together, kisses him gently.

The Doctor pushes his face into her hair. "'m tired," he says.

"Not my fault."

He laughs again, tightens his grip on her waist. "Yes it is."

Missy smiles to herself. "Yeah, it is."

 *** * ***  

There's a light tap at the door.

It's far too bright.

The Doctor pulls the blankets over his head. Missy groans. He aches all over, but the worst is his throbbing head. Or his dry mouth. He tries to move again. No, it's his head.

"No," Missy says.

There's another knock at the door.

"I'm leaving a tray outside!" a voice calls. The language sounds alien and wrong-shaped to his ears, until the TARDIS translation matrix catches up with his aching brain and translates the French properly. Missy twitches. "Mr Jefferson and his…Mr Jefferson is not up yet either. Breakfast shall be served in an hour."

"No," says Missy again, trying to burrow into the mattress. She grabs the Doctor around the waist and he yelps. Missy pulls him half on top of her, presses her face against his chest. "No."

The footsteps outside retreat.

"Bags not," says the Doctor, trying not to move.

"No."

"No."

Missy nips the skin on his ribs. He winces. She laps her tongue over her teethmarks.

"How is that meant to persuade me?" he groans.

"I'll bite lower."

The Doctor rolls out of bed, shudders when the cold air hits him, drags the top blanket off the bed and wraps the scratchy wool around himself like a cape. He stumbles through their clothes, fumbles with the door until it works, drags the laden tray in.

"If there's food, I don't want it," Missy says. "It smells so bad in here."

Stooped and awkward, the Doctor pours them both black coffees, tips half the sugar bowl in one and ferries them, one by one, to the bedside table. He clambers back into bed, rearranges the pillows so he can slump weakly against the headboard.

Missy blinks up at him from her nest of blankets. She has panda eyes from her makeup rubbing off, and her hair is a mess.

"Coffee," he manages to say, lifts one hand and strokes her hair back.

She puts her head under the pillow instead. "I'm sore. Go away."

"Sorry."

"It's a good sore."

Missy sighs, drags herself up next to him, holding the blankets up around her chest. The Doctor passes her the non-sugared coffee. She kisses him on the cheek, lets her head loll onto his shoulder. She rubs his thigh with her cool fingers.

"What are you covering with the blankets?"

"It's cold." Missy gives him a look. "You weren't that drunk."

The Doctor puts his coffee on the table, grabs the edge of the bedding, pulls it away from her chest.

"Ah yes. I remember. Excellent," he says, nosing under her jaw and kissing her under her ear. "Wait. Hang on."

Down between the headboard and the mattress, he finds his shirt, yanks it out. He shakes it, gives it to Missy, who puts it on gratefully. She leans against him, holds her coffee in her lap. The Doctor wraps his arm around her shoulders.

"Do we have to go for - " the Doctor begins, when there's another, much louder thump on the door.

"Yes?" Missy calls.

The door opens and Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, pokes his head through, looking very much the worse for wear.

"I hate you both," Lafayette says, and slams it shut again.

 *** * ***  

A very quiet breakfast with a drooping Thomas Jefferson and a slightly green Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette later, Missy and the Doctor say their goodbyes, troop back to the TARDIS, and he takes it into space as gently as possible.

"I'm going to go die in the shower," he says, staggering out of the console room. "And then go to bed, and die there."

 

The Doctor showers, throws up in the shower, showers some more, makes himself shave, because Missy had red marks all along her chest and thighs. Finds his favourite checkered pants and some kind of band t-shirt. He holds it up to read the slogan.

"Hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don't like," he says, shrugs. Puts it on, and finds himself feeling a little better. He can't even remember where he got it.

Missy's not in his room. The Doctor backs out, not sure why he thought she'd be there at all. He checks her empty bedroom. Wanders the corridors until the TARDIS relents and takes him to the lounge Missy's holed up in, lying on the beaten-up couch under a ratty blanket. Some brightly-coloured animated film is playing on a grainy old CRT television, tropical fish swimming all over the screen.

"I have no idea what this is," she says. "The TARDIS won't let me turn it off."

She lifts herself up, the Doctor collapses onto the couch and kicks his boots off. Missy lies back down with her head in his lap, pulls the blanket back up. He picks at one of the loose threads coming out of the arm, toys with the yellowing stuffing poking out of a hole in the brown velvet. There's a song playing in the film.

"What language is that?" Missy asks dully.

"Something from Earth's Pacific region," the Doctor says.

"Huh. 'S nice. Sounds like Middle Western Gallifreyan."

"From the foothills?"

"Yeah." Her voice is still flat, tired. "Who spoke it at the Academy with that accent? I think - "

"No idea. Wait. The blonde girl I had a crush on. I can't even remember her name now." The Doctor tilts his head to one side. "Yes - it kind of does. Of course, they don't sing in it on Gallifrey."

"Ah Gallifrey. If they could see us now. Terrors of the Time Lords."

"Do you want me to turn it off?"

"No, it's nice."

"It is." The Doctor settles into the couch, which creaks, and takes a deep breath. Leans forward and removes a throw pillow from beneath his back. Relaxes. Missy brings one of her hands around, pats his knee. He rests a hand on her hair. It's still got pins in it from yesterday. He picks one out, puts it on the coffee table. Finds another pin.

"You have plaster dust in your hair."

"Hm."

The Doctor finds a third pin, puts it carefully next to the other ones on the table.

"I want to have sex," Missy says in the same flat tone, still watching the film.

"Uh."

"Not right now. Not constantly. Just, more. I like having sex, and I like having it with you," she says. "You really need to try being female out. I mean, really. _Really_. I forgot how good the orgasms were, once you figure out how to have them. It's quite simple - "

"Missy."

"I know, you don't have much of a drive this time around. Which is fine. But you do - enjoy yourself, when we get started. You helped start that, last night. It reduces stress."

"I feel a bit stressed right now, if I'm honest."

"Yes, but until I brought it up?"

"I suppose," the Doctor says, not really sure what the right answer is. "It's a reasonable request."

"Put it in the contract," says Missy. "Your terms. I don't care, just stick it in. That counts for the contract and - "

"Don't jump me in the shower. Term one. I'm old and delicate."

"Please. You play the electric guitar and went skydiving a few months ago."

"When did I go skydiv - Missy, _you blew up the plane I was on_. Let's discuss this."

"Baby, sh, I'm trying to watch the movie."

The Doctor is silent for ten full seconds. "Did you just call me - "

"Well it's not like I want to do it all the time," Missy says, and amazingly, her voice is still as flat as a lizard drinking. "We'll travel together sometimes, we'll shag occasionally, as opposed to never, I'll do your nails, we'll go out for dinner. Sex is the one thing we've always managed to get right, 98% of the time. It diffuses tension."

The Doctor opens his mouth, closes it. "You make a good point. I guess, if you want to - "

"You want to, too. You wouldn't have shaved if you didn't." Missy yawns. "God, I'm good. I'm going back to my TARDIS later," she adds. "I need some me-time."

"Fair call," the Doctor says. "That's fine. We should stay on yours, next time. The old girl won't mind."

"She'll be pleased to see the back of me, more like."

The Doctor pokes Missy's shoulder until she sits up and gives him a look. He takes her hips and makes her stand, retrieves the throw pillow and puts his head on it, lies down on the couch. Missy settles back onto the cushions, spreads the blanket over both of their legs, and leans back against his chest, warm and solid and familiar. She takes the Doctors arm and drapes it around her waist. Hums when the Doctor presses his face against the back of her head, breathes in the smell of her hair. And probably a few flakes of plaster dust. Missy laces their fingers together.

"Told you it diffuses tension," she mumbles.

"Shh. Baby. I can't hear the movie."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Niki the Doctor and Missy are referring to is Niki Lauda. Lauda is a tremendously good mechanic and was a champion Formula One driver. He's also famous for being a ginormous dickhead.


	5. nine visits of little consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine visits of little incidence, and one of great importance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight format mixaround this chapter. Trigger warnings for references to drowning and a child's death.

 

 

> _I want a relationship that’s just like super cool friendship with like kissing. - tumblr user rippeddad_

 

Time passes. It gets away from him. That rarely happens.

 

_10\. Visit Twelve_

For some reason, the Doctor feels compelled to make a soufflé. He does everything perfectly. It's going to be chocolate. Still, somehow, it ends up burning.

"Damnit," he says, quietly.

Turns everything off, throws the charred remnants of the pastry in the sink (he doesn't even like soufflés), the mixing bowls, the spoons and runs water over it, vaguely hoping the TARDIS is feeling nice enough to deal with the dishes. He turns around, puts his back to the sink.

"I'm going to get a soufflé, then I'll clean all this up," he says.

The ship is silent. He turns around again. The dishes remain undone.

"I guess that's all right by you then."

 

The TARDIS takes him, not to France, but to Starship France. It's coasting through the universe, a respectable distance from Starship UK. He wanders through the charmingly paved hallways of the massive ship, nodding at the various people he sees along the way. Feels like they're avoiding him. Maybe he does have a grumpy face this time.

The Doctor pauses, glances around and makes himself look at the street properly. He seems to have landed in more of a leisure and sport area, as all he can see are toy shops and arcades and shops selling soccer balls and tennis racquets. No pastries in sight. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. He takes it out.

"Hey, Missy. No, I'm not really doing anything. Looking for soufflés. I assume you can trace this call."

Missy hangs up. Simultaneously her TARDIS lands about twenty metres away, in front of a babywares store, and takes on the form of a rather thick lamppost. The Doctor approaches. She steps out, shrugging into her coat. Peers at his face as she buttons it up. She frowns.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

The Doctor shrugs. "I'm just at a loose end. I suppose. It's been a while since I saw you. How long does me-time last?"

"However long that was," says Missy, still squinting at his expression. "Doctor. Doctor, Doctor Doctor. What have you been doing?"

He doesn't even try, sighs. Slumps. "It's been a while since I talked to anyone but the TARDIS."

"Well then," says Missy. She goes to take his hand, thinks better of it. Links their arms instead, pulls the Doctor into step with her. "Soufflé you say? Personally I could murder some crepes, but whatever you're into."

The Doctor shortens his stride to match hers. Her heels click on the cobblestones.

"I thought you didn't like soufflés," says Missy.

"I have a craving."

 

*** * ***

_9\. Visit Fourteen_

He's barely finished landing on Y'nellig when Missy bangs on his TARDIS door, holds up a copy of _Fifty Shades of Grey_. The Doctor closes the door in her face.

"No, not like that! At least hear me out!" she calls, knocking again. "I traced the origins of the book - we can stop it ever being published."

"Fifty Shades is a fixed point in Earth's literary history," the Doctor says through the door.

"I worry about you. You're alone too much. I thought Hermits United was just a cover story you made up for Professor Yana."

"You can't talk. You have no friends."

"Yeah, but I don't like having friends. Come on. New Mexico! There could be pirates!"

The Doctor opens the door. Missy steps back, smiles at him.

"Go on," he says.

That somehow turns into three days on the run, in the rain, from hoverboard-riding police in 2030s New Mexico. There are no pirates. At one point, hiding in some empty, rainy playground under the slide, the Doctor sees the reflection of a red neon sign in a puddle. He looks again, and it's gone. Looks around wildly.

"Did you see that?"

"See what?" Missy asks.

"The red light?"

"What red light?"

The Doctor looks around again for the hovercops, shuffles out to look about the jungle-gym, feet squelching in the mud. He stares towards the sandpit, looks out to the street. "I see this - red neon light, it's following me. It's the diner sign, I think it's the diner sign? Missy. I'm being followed by a diner." He moves towards the street. "It's got to be around here somewhere."

"Doctor, honey, you're seeing things and we need to prioritise."

"I'm not seeing things."

"Diners don't follow people, idiot. Don't go that way." Missy shuffles along behind him. "I can hear the cops," she hisses. "Come on, we need to run."

The sirens grow louder. The Doctor doesn't move. Missy does, sprinting forward, grabbing his wrist and yanking him along behind her in the opposite direction. They hightail it across the park, slipping, down a street, feet slapping on the pavement, splashing through puddles. They come up on the TARDIS, parked next to a dumpster.

Missy bodily shoves them inside, landing on the floor with a thump. The Doctor scrambles up, leaps over her, stumbles up the steps, takes the TARDIS into the vortex as fast as he can. Parks them on some remote asteroid in deep space. Slams on the brake. Breathes out.

Missy rolls over, laughing. The Doctor engages the stabilisers, and checks the scanner. Missy laughs so hard she snorts, covers her mouth, laughs harder. She rolls onto her back, legs the air, her petticoats white, spattered with mud, tangled in her purple skirt. The Doctor finds himself laughing with her.

"What's so funny?" he asks, chuckling.

Missy gets herself under control, wipes at the tears that streak down her face. Snorts, laughs again. "How long has it been since we ran from the cops?"

The Doctor trails down the stairs, steps over her again. "Too long. The palace guards, that time with the armless Emperor." He throws open the TARDIS doors to reveal the infinite black void of space.

"Nice," says Missy.

He returns, sits on the floor next to Missy. Flops onto his side. Chuckles.

"The Great Red Spot," Missy says dreamily. "When we pickpocketed the Viceroy."

"When we snuck into the Liuson after hours to try their giant chess set. Who won that game?"

Missy looks at him, bites the pad of her thumb. "I don't recall."

"Hm." the Doctor finds himself thinking of the diner again. "Missy, I really did see something. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"My Lord Doctor."

"My Lady Mistress?"

"No, no. It was you. You won. The chess, at Liuson." Missy sighs, grins. Stares up at the roof. "I've missed this. _This_." She gestures about the room, arms wide.

In light of recent events, the Doctor finds himself wanting to kiss her. He holds back, studies her profile. "Me too."

Missy rolls onto her side, stares across at him, eyes soft. There's a smear of mud on her forehead. She smiles. This time, it's warmer. 

"What?" he asks.

"I can read your mind," Missy says. "I can see your thoughts, Doctor."

"Yes you can. I can feel it."

Sliding along the TARDIS floor, the Doctor pulls himself over to her, cups her face with his muddy fingers and presses their mouths together.

"My dear Doctor," Missy mumbles against his lips.

They kiss slowly for a few minutes, sprawled on the floor. The Doctor strokes her cheek with his thumb; Missy rubs small circles between his hearts. Eventually the Doctor pulls away, lies on his back again.

"Will you stay for a while?" he asks.

In answer, Missy lies next to him, folds her arms behind her head, and they both look out at the stars, bright white against the black and blue. She knocks their shoes together companionably.

"The deep and lovely dark," the Doctor says quietly.

"Yeah," Missy replies.

The TARDIS creaks around them. Outside, a comet trails past, thousand and thousands of miles away.

"Stealing your brother's datapad that winter semester we all got snowed in," Missy says finally. "I got caught that time, but you, Diam and Ushas broke me out."

"Braxiatel was so mad. I had to give him all my desserts for the next week. And Professor Borusa made me write that letter. 'Dearest brother, sorry Koschei and I nicked your tablet, I can't remember why but you probably deserved it.' Um. Oh, the collision of Phobos and Demos," the Doctor says. "We had to fly basically all the way back to the Kasterborous System to shake the Martian Martials."

"That was your fault. You didn't carry the four."

 

*** * ***

_8\. Visit Seventeen_

It's a low-key dinner-and-a-show night.

"Are we dressing up for Rocky Horror?" Missy yells.

"What kind of stupid question is that?" the Doctor shouts back.

 

*** * ***

_7\. Visit Twenty_

"Do you actually want to do something today?" Missy asks the Doctor.

He looks up from his reading. Missy stares at her own scroll, chewing her lower lip as she skims it.

"Did you have anything in mind?" he says. "I'm fine here."

She shrugs, finally looks up at him. Her glasses are catching the light from the torch bracketed to the wall over her head. "Not particularly. It's just quite a lovely day. I wouldn't mind spending some of it outside."

The Doctor looks past her, at the people of Alexandria bustling by, the azure sky and streaks of white cloud. Seabirds wheel above the city. He can just see the darker line of the sea in the gaps between some of the buildings. Feels his concentration drifting. Missy stands, pushing her chair back. It makes a loud squeal on the stone floor, and a few of the scholars sitting about the reading room glare at her. She ignores them.

"I'm going to go find Zenodotus," Missy says, rolling up her scroll. "See if he needs any help sorting the Greek stuff. You know how he is. Want to go to the markets later?"

"Do you need anything in particular?"

"I want to smell the spices."

"Sounds good. Please don't start a cumin-throwing war. I'm too old for that now. We're too old for that."

"I can't believe you would even think that of me. I'm insulted. Appalled." She pulls a face at him, turns to leave. "Disgusted."

"Hey, wait," the Doctor says, and Missy returns. "Can I borrow your glasses? The writing here is tiny."

Missy hands her glasses over. Smiles when he puts them on, tucks the scroll under her arm.

"You look like a nerd," she says, and walks away.

 

*** * ***

_6\. Visit Twenty-Three_

He and Missy spend another eighteen hours on her TARDIS overriding the last few security protocols and refitting one of the gunpowder stores into a retro games room.

The Doctor is following Missy down a corridor towards her cinema room when she spins, pins him up against the wall and shoves a hand down his pants. The Doctor yelps. Missy crushes their lips together.

"Are we - " The Doctor pulls his head back until it smacks against the wall. "I specifically asked you _not_ to jump me."

"Fine, fine." Missy removes her hand, takes a theatrical step back, holds her hands up. "I would like to sleep with you. Well no, I want to shag your brains out. Slight difference. We can sleep after."

The Doctor stutters. Missy rolls her eyes.

"Can I _please_ shag your brains out?"

"Do retro games or the thought of debating the politics of Metropolis just get your motor running?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Can we at least go to a bedroom?"

"Which bedroom?"

"Oh, all of a sudden you're _picky_."

 

*** * ***

_5\. Visit Twenty-Five_

Breakfast in the Restaurant At The End Of The Universe (it's a franchise. They go to the one in the year 4032 on Saturn). They find out really what's really in Loch Ness and drink heavily to forget about it.

After sobering up they swing by minigolf on Venus. Missy says she won, the Doctor argues against this, and the poor teenager in charge of the AdventureLandPlayPark4000™just wants to go home.

 

*** * ***

_4\. Visit Twenty-Six_

He's sitting between Missy's legs as she rakes her nails through his hair. The TV plays quietly in the corner; the hotel room is warm, the fire crackling in the grate. Rain continues to splatter against the windows. Thunder rolls in the distance.

"Why is she a genie?" the Doctor asks, head lolling. He squints at the television. Drops one of his hands down to stroke Missy's stockinged foot and rubs her arch. "I don't sound like that when I call you Master, do I?"

"It was the sixties. Well it is the sixties," Missy says. She tweaks his left ear, pulls at the lobe. "Did you have a piercing?"

"That's neither here nor there nor any of your business, Missy. Why do you like this show?"

Missy shrugs. "It was on." She keeps stroking his hair, humming away. She brings her hands down to his jawline and traces her fingertips through his stubble. Moves them back up to his head, trying to style his hair into a mohawk or a mullet or something equally disturbing. Smooths it down again.

The Doctor rests his cheek against her knee, checks his watch. "The rain's going to let up in about half an hour. Do you still want to go for that walk? Amiens after a storm. Your favourite."

"My favourite." Missy slides off the couch, presses her chest against his back, her legs still bracketing him. She leans so her face is between his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his chest. "We'll see."

The Doctor watches the show. Missy's grip relaxes. Her breathing slows, and he realises she's dozed off. He waits a minute, turns the TV off. Shifts carefully and lies Missy down on the carpet. Tugs the blanket off the couch and covers her up. Eyes still closed, Missy grabs his ankle.

"I know, I know," he says. "I'm just getting a book."

He throws another log on the fire, retrieves his copy of _Jane Eyre_ from his bag. As he does so, Missy clambers up onto the couch. She throws her legs over his lap when he sits back down. Missy lies back, shoving a throw pillow under her head. Rests her hands on her stomach. Sighs contentedly.

"What did you do before we met up that wore you out?" the Doctor asks. He props the book against her shins, finds the page he's up to.

"I thought we agreed not to talk about that," Missy says, closing her eyes. "I'm holding you to that, Theta Sigma."

"You got it," the Doctor says. "Jazzercise?"

"Bang on."

 

*** * ***

_3\. Visit Twenty-Nine_

Missy finally turns to face the Doctor. Her face is covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

"When are we going to go out dancing?" she asks. "You know, we still haven't been. Time's a-wasting."

The Doctor rotates to face her, stares. Keeps turning. Gasps as he breathes. It's far too hot.

"I guess I could say, time's a-basting. Ha."

"Missy, considering we're currently tied up by the Uelgunavrli People and about to be roasted on a spit. Higher priorities."

"Does Tuesday work for you?"

The Doctor has to crane his neck to see her, speaks up over the crackling of the flames. "What kind of dancing?"

"Oh, I'm down for anything really. Anyway. Can you reach your sonic?"

 

*** * ***

_2\. Visit Thirty_

Three museums in three days plus two more spent lost in the corn maze of Qatuilt. It's more fun than it sounds. The star-chain of Falle goes supanova, one star after the other. The Doctor and Missy park their TARDISes next to each other in space. Sit in their respective doorways, side by side, watching the stars burn up and explode. Missy makes popcorn sprinkled with icing sugar, and the Doctor's fingers get covered in the white powder.

Afterwards, Missy takes him to a moon dotted with rocky islands surrounded by brightly-coloured, jewel-like coral. She built a tiny shack on one of the outcrops, complete with a small wooden deck. There's nothing but a small gas stove and a couple of barrels of freshwater; a stack of novels and scrolls. A small, plastic portable chess set, the kind humans take on long car rides. A fishing rod sits in one corner, with a couple more books and notepads. The Doctor steps over the sleeping mat on the floor, joins Missy on the deck.

"This whole planet is uncharted at this point," Missy says, and brings out a thermos of tea, leans against the railing. "I'm working on it. The Third Great and Bountiful Human Empire claims sovereignty eventually, and this place goes to absolute hell. Still."

The coral around this island is mostly yellow, pink and white, with darker streaks of seaweed, radiating out in rings. Huge fish in all kinds of colours swim about aimlessly. The sky is vivid blue, with three equidistant suns. Faintly on the horizon, he can see one of the other moons that orbit the planet. The air is fresh and clear, cool. They're too high up to smell the salty water.

"Good fishing," she says, pouring them both a cup. "We can do some later, if you like."

"This is beautiful, Missy. Thank you for showing me this."

"It's alright."

"No, really."

"Thanks. It's special to me."

The Doctor takes the cup, leans against the railing and looks out across the water. "How did you find this place?"

"Crashed here the first few decades I was in exile," Missy says. "Rather unpleasant, if I'm honest, until I could get my TARDIS working again."

"You do like the sea," the Doctor says.

"I do like the sea."

"Is it swimmable?"

"It's fifty-five parts salt per thousand," says Missy. "Good for minor wounds. But steer clear of the green-striped sharks. They shoot poisonous darts."

"How did you find that out?"

"Remember that time I showed up on Lasonica with a limp?"

"Vaguely. Very vaguely."

"The weekend you spent away from Adric and the other two, the one who never stopped talking. That was a good weekend. I had a great time."

The Doctor takes a drink of tea, looks across at her. Missy stares out to sea, a faint smile on her face.

That weekend he and the Master had met on Lasonica, a planet renowned for good cafes and its busking culture. You couldn't have everything. They'd ended up being chased by the Northern Hemisphere Palace Guards for refusing to pay for (frankly terrible) cups of tea, despite dining and dashing supposedly being a tradition if the meal was unsatisfactory. The Lasonicans had a pit-based punishment system and so the Doctor and Master had spent forty-nine hours stuck in an oubliette before effecting an incredibly complex (indescribably so) escape. He'd been miserable and muddy and cold and the conversation had stopped being interesting by hour seven. The tea had run out at hour nine. Things had just gotten worse from there.

"You really did enjoy that weekend, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. We were cold and muddy, but we've been through worse," Missy says. "I got to see you."

The Doctor stares at her again. She still looks out to sea. She looks peaceful.

"You really did," he says quietly.

"I did."

They stand, leaning on the railing, looking out across the ocean. The sun moves across the sky. Down below, the Doctor sees a purple shark circling the island.

"Do you ever use that chess set?" he asks eventually.

"Never against another person," Missy says.

"Let's change that."

 

*** * ***

_1\. A visit, over two thousand years ago._

It's far too hot outside. It's boiling. The suns beat down on the fields, the trees gleaming in the distance. The study is cool, at least, and the windows triple-glazed so the blazing leaves of the trees don't blind them. The room smells faintly of incense, of ink, well-made paper and chocolate. Braxiatel steeples his hands, watches his brother continue to talk. He glances out the window, over the red fields of grass blowing in the late-summer winds. 

"Koschei's still off-world," Theta says. "They're working on extending the safe zone in which the military can destabilise Eyes of Harmony. Keeps complaining about her workmates. Do you know Channa of Riverrun?"

"Where is she? Koschei, not Channa."

"Nalcessan. Or thereabouts," says Theta. "She's not allowed to actually say. Now, I know why you're here. Do you want to dance around the topic or shall we just get straight to it?"

He stands, leans against his desk and folds his arms. Waits. "Come on, Brax."

Braxiatel gives up. "Straight to it. Marry Koschei, or at least get engaged," he says, stirring his tea with venom. His attitude, not the actual ingredients. He only takes it with a bit of sugar. "This is getting ridiculous, brother. It's not like either of you mind."

"Your face is a grand argument against such actions," says Theta. "Kosch would never forgive me if we put a stop to it. Biscuit? You look so grumpy. No promotion, I take it?"

"No thanks to you. Being an Ambassador means I could go off-world. It's just selfish of you both."

Theta stands, leans against his desk. "Selfish? We love each other, we have a house, she's the mother of my child. Under Gallifreyan common-law, we're married. It's close enough. Our parents are happy, and the elders, and her commanding officers are all fine with it."

"Apparently it's not enough for the Council to even consider me." Brax slurps his tea. "Theta. If money is an objection."

"Money is nowhere near an objection. Maybe if you got rid of that ridiculous moustache you'd get the promotion. Facial hair doesn't work for anyone in our family, and you're no exception." There's a tap on the door. "Yes?"

Welfan, the housekeeper, pokes her head through the gap. "Lord Theta. Cardinal," she says, quietly. "A representative of the Academy is here."

"Show them in," Theta says. "Seriously. Brax. Try these. They're moist."

"I hate the word moist. Is your daughter in trouble?"

"I don't know what Arah could have done," says Theta. He snaps a biscuit in two, dunks one half in his tea. "She's a good girl."

"With you and Koschei as her parents, I can't imagine that behaviour lasting."

"If so, could you help smooth things over? Kosch won't be able to get leave from the Army unless it's truly serious. They're in the middle of something big."

Brax sighs heavily. Nods. Theta grins. The brothers stand as Welfan leads Professor Borusa himself into the study. He still smells of the teleport he used to get here, arton sparks and burning dust. Still wears his teaching robe. Clenches and unclenches his fists, looks everywhere but at Theta.

"Professor," Theta says, a hint of surprise in his tone.

Borusa bows to Braxiatel, then nods at Theta, face pale and grave.

"Sit, please," Braxiatel says.

"My brother, ordering people around in my own house. Some things never change. Tea, Professor? Cool drink?" Theta asks cheerfully, pouring a cup of tea regardless. He offers it to Borusa, who shakes his head. "Welfan, you can go, everything's fine. What's Arah done, hey? Taking after me and Koschei after all?" Theta sips the tea, grimaces. Puts it back on his desk.

"Lord Theta, you may want to sit down. Please." Borusa isn't angry. His tone is pleading. "Call me Borusa, if you wouldn't mind."

Theta sinks into his armchair, crosses his legs. Uncrosses them, leans forward. "Professor, what is it? Why are you calling me Theta?"

The door clicks shut as Welfan leaves. The room is briefly silent, incredibly tense. Outside, the wind whistles through the grass.

"Should I stay?" Braxiatel asks finally, confused.

"I think that may be a good idea," Borusa says.

Theta is still cheerfully befuddled. "Brax, sit down, you look so awkward standing round. Why are you giving me that look, Borusa? It can't be half as bad as you think it is. Get to the point, man."

Braxiatel sits back down in his armchair, leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hearts are pounding.

"Theta, I've come straight from the Academy - something's happened. Your daughter, it seems she. It seems Arah was out by one of the Academy lakes this afternoon - "

The smile drops from Theta's face. Braxiatel's stomach lurches. Borusa keeps talking, fast and flat, staring at the carpet, hands clenching and unclenching.

"It appears she fell in and hit her head. As you know, unassisted regeneration - "

"She's in the infirmary? We can go now," Theta says, stands. Sways. Takes a deep breath. "I'll give up one of my regenerations, simple. Sorted. Brax, get Welfan to call the tailor. Come on - "

Braxiatel puts his hand over his mouth, feels a sudden rush of nausea. They wouldn't have sent Borusa all the way out here if Arah was just injured. He speaks, but it doesn't sound like his own voice. "Borusa, what are you saying?"

"Theta, they didn't find her in time." Borusa stands, crosses the room, puts his hand on Theta's shoulder. Theta shrugs him off. Borusa continues, his voice strained. "Theta, they didn't find her for an hour. It was too late to attempt a regeneration. The doctors confirmed it just a few minutes ago. I came straight here."

"I don't understand," Theta says. "Is this a joke, Borusa? Getting back for my behaviour at the Academy? If it is, it's disgusting."

"Thete, come on," Braxiatel says, getting up too. He grips his brother's forearm. "Sit down." He leads Theta back to his armchair, makes him sit. Stands by his side, grips his shoulder. Faces their old professor.

"Borusa, I don't understand what you're saying," Theta says again, staring through him. "What are you saying?"

"Theta, your daughter has drowned," Borusa says quietly. "She's died. I'm so sorry."

"No, she hasn't. Don't be ridiculous. Children don't die on Gallifrey. Children don't die at the Academy," Theta says. "We can just do an assisted regeneration. I know they prefer a parent who's regenerated before but I doubt you'll be able to get Koschei away from her project in time. Brax? Can you help? You're her uncle, she's your only niece."

"How in the seven hells?" Braxiatel asks. "How did this happen? What happens now? _How did this happen_?"

"We'll just go to the Academy. Brax, you've regenerated, you talk us both through it. She's smart, and she likes you. No accounting for taste there," Theta laughs. It borders on hysterical. "That's my girl."

"Theta. Listen to me. A student from Heartshaven saw her in the water and raised the alarm. I came straight here from the infirmary," Borusa says. "Theta, I am so sorry. We're so sorry. We need you to - "

"Arah will be able to regenerate," Theta says, grabbing Braxiatel's hand, breathing fast, his face a dreadful, pale grimace. He grips Braxiatel's fingers to the point of pain. "You know what, just get Kosch then, if you're so worried. Mother knows best, as they say on Sol Three. Where is Koschei?"

"The Academy is already in contact with the military, trying to get her recalled. But we need Theta at the Academy," Borusa says to Braxiatel, as Theta continues to mumble to himself.

Braxiatel stares at his brother, trying to pick up on what he's saying. It's mostly Arah's name. There's a couple of Koschei's thrown in there too.

"What protocols are there for this?" Braxiatel asks, hating himself for his practicality. His voice still doesn't sound like his own.

"This happens so rarely, my Lord," Borusa says. "We need to take him to the Academy. His, or Koschei's House needs to be notified for the laying-out. But first, the parents must see the child. To confirm Arah's - condition, and her identity."

"It's her birthday soon. Kosch and I are going to take her to the Citadel for a day. She's so excited. She's going to be nine." Theta wipes his face, looks at his hands, dumbfounded. "Am I crying? Brax, what's going on?"

"Thete." Braxiatel drops to his knees next to the chair, holds his brother's hand. Theta blinks over at him.

"You'll ruin your robes, doing that," he says, absently, his voice strangely bright. "What's happened? Are you crying Brax? Why are we crying?Brax, can we come see you on her birthday?" Theta asks.

Brax shuffles around, stares at Theta, who finally blinks and focuses on him. His eyes are going red, filled with tears. He's trembling, and his hands have gone cold. Braxiatel feels himself shaking his head from side to side. Theta's eyes widen and he opens his mouth, closes it.

"Arah's dead?" Theta whispers, and Braxiatel's stomach lurches. He nods, his hearts sinking. "How can she be dead?"

"It was an accident, brother."

"No. Children don't die from accidents here," Theta says. "No. This is _Gallifrey_. This is the Academy - " he takes a deep breath, curls his hands into fists. Breathes out. "No. No, no. No. No. She can't be dead. Where's Koschei? Has anyone told Kosch? This is going to kill her."

Theta grips his hand until his fingers creak, the knuckles showing up white under his skin. Braxiatel tamps down on the emotions threatening to overwhelm him, focuses. His little brother starts to shake harder, rock backwards and forwards.

"She can't be dead, Brax, she's just a kid, she's my - she's our baby. This can't happen, she's my baby - "

The room is too hot and too close and too quiet.

"I'm so sorry, Theta," Borusa says again.

Braxiatel ignores him, wraps his arm around Theta's shoulders, presses his forehead against his brother's temple. Theta covers his face with his hands, rocking, talking quietly.

"She's just a kid, I can't do this, I can't do this. I can't."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've mentioned this before, but I cherry-pick elements from the EU and so the characterization of Braxiatel, Borusa and Theta is made up completely wholesale, as is the implied laws and practises of Gallifrey.  
> Thanks to Ilana for reading this over for me! Comments as per usual are always welcomed and adored.


	6. stories for children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What counts as dating, really? They've done everything else under the sun.

 

> _Never build a dungeon you wouldn't be happy to spend a night in yourself. - Lord Vetinari._

As countries go, New Zealand has far too many mountains in it. It's got more mountains than some solar systems. The Doctor leaves the small nation, disgusted. It's too big and too beautiful and too devoid of people and too quiet. He heads over to the Howded System. One of the planets in there has been celebrating New Year's Eve for four straight centuries.

He frowns when he walks into a bar he's never been to before and they demand he pay his tab. Walks outside, gaping at the bill. Stops. Turns. Stares.

There's no diner. He must be imagining things. The Doctor shakes off the feeling he's missing something, examines the bill again, flipping through the pages. That said, if he imbibed all this by himself, he could potentially still be drunk.

A thought occurs to him. The Doctor returns to his TARDIS, sticking the bill up on his blackboard before striding into the corridors. Crosses through the zeppelin hangar, the nursery, the sub-atomic particle spinner room and a room containing what appears to be Imelda Marcos' shoe collection. He'd been wondering where that had got to. The Doctor finally finds the spare parts warehouse, tools, chunks of metal and engine parts strewn along the shelves. Takes off his coat; rolls up his sleeves. Starts digging.

His hands and wrists get covered with grease. It takes him hours, but he finally digs up the broken Type 64 perception filter he borrowed (stole) off the Rani, way back whenever. There had been a dinosaur involved.

The Doctor hauls that to his favourite workshop, the one with the grubby kitchenette in the corner. He painstakingly undoes the rusted casing of the filter. Clicks his tongue, finds his headtorch and brings out his sonic. This is going to take a lot of work.

And there's one avenue he needs to check first. Just in case.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Thirty-Three_

"Have you ever gone to Howded?" he asks, staring at Missy's face on the scanner screen.

Missy keeps painting her nails, her attention diverted. "Which part of Howded? It's twelve planets and nineteen inhabited moons. And they've got that big satellite society who live in that old space station and eat fungus and mushrooms. Mushrooms. When are we going to Qonsungan?"

"Uh - Howded Four."

The screen fritzes, fills with static.

"That's your end," he hears Missy saying, and he reaches out, twists one of the dials. "This is why I hate video calls."

She clears up again. Pulls a face at him down the camera.

"Howded Four," the Doctor repeats."The locals call it - "

"The Copakibana?" Missy pauses for a moment, thinks. "The capital of which is Nabeania? Constitutional Monarchy with a three-tiered Parliamentary system with subsequently tricameral elective systems by ballot for the lower lower house, preferential ticket for the lower house and write-ins for the upper house? Where they've been celebrating New Years for five hundred years? The planet so loud the other planets in the system filed noise violation reports to the Shadow Proclamation? Despite sound not being able to exist in the vacuum of space? Where they give you a free glittery top hat once you pay an entry fee of seven ingots? Where bottles of water are ridiculously overpriced?"

"Yes. That Copakibana."

"Never been." Missy goes back to her nails. Holds them up into the frame. "What do you think of this colour?"

"It's the same as your old colour - Did you go to Howded Four and order a bunch of drinks under my name?"

"No."

"You can put your nails down now."

"Yeah, I just want you to look at this finger. Just this one finger, for that baseless accusation. Are you doing anything later?"

The Doctor looks at the bill again. "Probably selling one of my kidneys to pay for this bar tab. Who do we know who drinks daiquiris?"

"Then you know it wasn't me, I don't drink those," says Missy. "I'm insulted you'd even think I did this. Sell one of your guitars."

"Put - put your damn finger down, I know what that means, Missy." The Doctor waits for her to do so, continues. "No, I'm not doing anything. What did you have in mind?"

Missy shrugs. "You're better at picking date spots."

"We're not dating. I've never dated anyone in my life. Dates are, dates are funparks and restaurants and candles and bubble baths and strawberries dipped in chocolate. And holding hands."

"We hold hands."

"Both partners should be willing participants in the hand holding. Consensual hand-holding."

Missy blows on her nails, shrugs. "Well, what have we been doing for the past couple decades then, buddy me-ol-pal friendo?"

"Conversations. Sorting out our issues. Enjoying each others company, at leisure." The Doctor sniffs, crosses his arms. "Or not enjoying, as it were."

"And shagging."

The Doctor gives her a look. Missy reaches over, screenshots it through the scanner. Smirks.

"Beautiful," she says. "I'm putting it on my fridge. Go on, you pick. Unless you don't want to hang."

"I could hang," the Doctor says, thinking. "Really not in a shagging mood. Or kissing. None of that nonsense."

Missy ignores him. "Do you ever worry you'll run out of places in the universe to visit? It's a lot smaller than it used to be, even after I destroyed one-third of the damn place."

"I forgot you did that," says the Doctor. "Hm."

"Do you?"

"Not particularly. I don't think it's possible to see everything and all times. It'd be a dull place if you could, " he says. "I've never really thought of it. Oh. Have you ever been to Gelaraeus?"

"Five capitals and no planet-wide governance system?" asks Missy. "Ruled by seven constantly-warring political parties which fall on the scale from hard right to hard left with little consistency, rhyme or reason? Despite this, famous for its waterfalls and custard pies?"

"Yeah."

"Never been."

"Neither have I. I'll send you some coordinates. See you in an hour."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Thirty-Five_

Stargazing on primordial Earth. They lie on some patch of relatively dry mould. It's actually quite comfortable; a strange shade of mauve, too, but that can't be helped. After this, the Doctor and Missy travel to Kamalana and seek out the invisible bridges that supposedly connect the two highest mountains on the planet.

"I can't see anything," the Doctor says, after an hour of looking.

"That's because they're invisible, dear," Missy drawls.

Later on, they sit on his TARDIS and watch another film. The Doctor flips through a TARDIS manual, periodically glancing up at the TV. Missy tilts her head at the screen, lying sideways in her armchair, mouth slightly open. The Doctor smiles. Puts his boots up on the table.

"It's nice not to be the confused one for once," the Doctor says.

"Why are they chickens?"

"Why aren't they chickens? It's a cartoon, it doesn't need to explain that element."

"Why are they in Stammlager Luft III?"

The Doctor looks across at Missy, recognising her tone. "Why were _you_ in Stalag Luft III?"

"At this point in my life, dear, if a prison comes up, I think it's best to assume I have been in it, rather than have _not_."

 

 

*** * ***

_A visit, over two thousand years ago._

The rain is finally letting up, but the last sun is going down when someone rings the door-chimes. No chance of letting the kids outside to run around then. Because of this, there's a small child dragging on the hem of his jacket. She doesn't want to let go any time soon. It's been one of those days. Theta shakes Peya off, picks her up around the waist, heaves her into the air while she squeals. Puts her down on the couch in his study. She jumps on the cushions, sending them flying. Squeals again for good measure. She must get it from her mother.

"Wait here," Theta says.

"Why?" asks Peya.

"Because it's not polite in Gallifreyan society to answer the door with children attached to one's person."

"Why?"

"Who knows. Another thing to blame the great founder for." Theta leans down, tucks her blonde hair back under her cap. "Hold still."

"Who's the great founder and why don't you like him? Do I like him?"

"Rassilon. Yes, you like him. I'm barely allowed to get away with not liking him these days."

"Why not?"

Theta gives up; both on her hair and on her questions. Lifts her onto his hip with a groan. She accidentally kicks him in the thigh, her toenails tiny and pointy.

"You're getting too big for this," he says. "Right, door. Which door?"

"The front one, dad, don't be stupid." Peya laughs.

"You're right, you're right. How could I be so foolish?"

Theta strides through the house with Peya gripping at his jacket, vaguely wonders where his wife and son are.

"And what do we say when we open the door?"

"We greet them nicely."

"And?"

"We don't hit."

"That's my girl. You'll be a Time Lady yet. Ready?"

"Ready."

Theta opens the front door. Jumps, tries to hide it.

"Good evening!" Peya cheers. "Who are you?"

"Koschei," Theta says. "Hi."

Peya waves. "Come in, Koschei!" she mispronounces Koschei's name with aplomb. "I'm Peya!"

Koschei stares. "Hi, Peya," she says finally, hunching her shoulders against the chill. Her dress military uniform is splattered with mud and damp from the rain. Her hood, draped over her collar as well as her head to protect the metal from the rain, hides most of her face.

"I said, come in, you're meant to come in," Peya declares, still waving.

Theta bends down, puts Peya on the ground. "Nice work, Peya, but Koschei doesn't want to come in." He glances up at Koschei, who looks around the entry-hall, discomfort clear on her face. Focuses on his daughter. "Actually, baby, go chase your brother," he says. "He's in the kitchen. He's always in the kitchen. Could use the exercise. No hitting."

"Will do."

Peya thunders off. Theta straightens up.

"Koschei," he says. "Hey."

"Theta," Koschei says, tucking her hands into her pockets. "Hi."

"Hi. How are you? It's been a while."

"I was in the area - "

"We live in the middle of nowhere," Theta says, and steps back, waves her into the house. "Come on in. Please, Kosch. It's cold."

There's a shriek and the sound of something smashing.

"Dad! Peya's hitting me!"

Koschei doesn't move off the doorstep. Theta sighs. She scrunches up her nose, hunches her shoulders more.

"Sorry, they're bouncing off the walls," he says. "They've been inside all day because of the rain."

"I'm not coming in, Theta."

"Give me one minute. I need to sort them out."

Theta leaves the door open, finds Peya and Fallin wrestling on the floor in the kitchen. He pulls Peya off Fallin, turns to check Lix hasn't wandered in. Pulls Fallin off Peya when he pounces on her while his back is turned. Theta kneels on the kitchen tiles in front of his kids.

"Enough, you two. I can tell you both hit each other. Peya, no, I said chase, not hit. Where's your mother?"

"She's reading in the attic. Said we're terrorists and she's never coming down. She says she's tired."

"Well, she's not wrong and I'll be joining her later tonight. We've got a store of food and water and books and we're never coming down. You two will have to fend for yourselves."

Peya's eyes widen and her lip trembles. Fallin rolls his eyes.

"Fallin, I need you to read to your sister while I see to who's outside."

"Who's here?" Fallin asks, frowning at his father. "Is it Uncle Braxiatel? Is he coming for dinner?"

"Uh, no. It's Koschei."

"Who's Koschei?" asks Peya.

Theta sighs again. Fallin smacks her on the arm; Theta catches his wrist.

"Don't," he says. "I'll - "

"Dad's ex-wife, they used to be married before him and mum," Fallin says. "Sorry I hit you, Peya."

"Near enough is good enough," Theta says, lets go of Fallin's arm and stands, dusting off his trousers. "Now, please. Fallin, take your sister to the playroom and read to her while I talk with Kosch."

"Fine," Fallin says, taking Peya's hand. "Let's go."

"I wanna talk to Koschei. I need to introduce myself to be polite, you told me."

"Well, she already knows you and doesn't want to talk," Theta says. "She met you when you were a baby. A few days after you were loomed."

"I don't remember her. Why doesn't she want to talk to me?"

There's a five second gap where Theta looks at Fallin, and his son stares back. Fallin knows the bare bones of the story; a half-sister he's never met and never will, taken too soon and too suddenly. Taken sixty-odd years ago now. He doesn't know the current intricacies of the situation.

"Because you were a baby then," Fallin says. "And you're a baby now. Come on, Peya."

Theta for the kids to leave via the back stairs. It's been a long day.

Koschei is still by the front door, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. She checks her timepiece. Looks up as Theta returns.

"Hi," she says again.

"You're seriously not going to come in? My study is child-free. It's alright, Kosch. Fine."

Theta follows her outside, closes the door behind him, sits on the bench on the verandah. Tries to relax, doesn't know what to do with his hands. Koschei leans against the railing. Takes her hood down. Her face is thinner.

"It's been a while," he says. "Far too long. How are - "

"I got a promotion," Koschei says in a rush.

"Congratulations. That's great Kosch, you deserve it." Theta makes himself smile.

"I'm one of the Masters of Engineering," she says. "I've been asked to go to Czex'chet. For a long spell, and we'll be on lockdown. An interesting assignment. I can't really say more."

Theta waves one hand. "Yes. What does that have to do with me?"

"I - " Koschei looks over at the forest, glinting faintly in the moonslight. "I have to leave tomorrow. Are you free tonight?"

"Ah. _Oh_. What's the assignment?"

Koschei taps her nails on the railing. Looks back at him, quirks an eyebrow. Touches her neck gently with her index finger.

"You know I can't tell you that."

"It's something to do the Daleks, I'll bet. Czex'chet's environmentally similar to Skaro, just minus the war that's been raging there for millennia. Leave the Daleks alone and they'll leave us be, I always say," Theta says, stretching his legs out. "And it'll be the radiation issue. That's my first guess. How to destroy the exoskeleton and the creature inside without irradiating the surrounding environment."

Koschei smiles slowly, leans against the railing so she's facing him properly. Theta puts his arms up along the back of the bench.

"Or to use the radiation against the Daleks. That would be the second step. Use the life force, basically, of your dead enemy, to destroy more of them."

"You're wasted in anthropology, my dear."

"You're wasted in warmaking. Regardless. They wouldn't ask me to be in the army now."

"Yes, I saw you've been saying some unsavoury things about the great and wondrous founder, our dear first President. But there's a war coming," Koschei says. "If times get desperate, they'll make desperate moves."

"Almost certainly. But there's always a war coming." Theta leans over, peers in through the front window, checking Peya and Fallin haven't crept into the front room to spy. "There's _always been_ a war coming. It can hold off a little while longer. It always has."

"Are you free tonight?" There's a note of exhaustion in Koschei's voice. No, not exhaustion. Theta can't quite put his finger on it. Decides not to try.

"Fallin's home from the Academy for the holiday," says Theta, trying to keep his tone normal, light. "Got in yesterday."

"I can hear him. Well, them."

"They fight when he comes back. Peya plays up. She's not used to sharing Lix and I." Theta doesn't look at Koschei. "She'll have to get used to it, I guess, in a year or so."

Koschei deliberately doesn't pick up on the hint.

"Peya's really grown. I haven't seen her since she was loomed. Where did she get the blonde from? She obviously got the volume from her mother."

"We honestly have no idea. I guess we'll find out further down the line," Theta says. "When Lix or I start regenerating. How long is the assignment?"

"It's an indefinite posting."

"An indefinite posting? You haven't been offered one of those since - in years. Decades." Theta stands with a groan. "Lix is upstairs. I'll just go let her know. Are we going to your place?"

"If that's all right with you?"

"It usually is. Be one minute."

He heads back inside, and upstairs. Just as the kids said, Theta finds Lix in the attic, lying on the daybed with a datapad, resting a hand on her stomach. She raises her eyebrows at him.

"I heard the door," she says. "Is Machel here early? Also, Machel is coming over for dinner."

"I won't be here for dinner. Koschei's here," he says, staying in the doorway awkwardly, feeling like he's about to be scolded. "She, uh. I'll be back tomorrow, unless you don't want me to leave."

"Go on, then."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am, Theta, when have I not been?"

Lix goes back to her reading.

"Lix. If this isn't okay - "

"It's fine, look." Lix puts her tablet to one side. "It's been ages since you saw her. It's not an anniversary of anything. Is it?"

"No. No, most of the anniversaries are in the Long Summer."

"Sorry. I've got a lot on my mind." Lix smiles at him. "We've always had this deal. Just, go on, enjoy yourself."

"She's got a major assignment with the army. They're sending her off tomorrow."

"Are you hearing me argue? My darling, go spend the night. You know I don't mind. Go help her."

Theta looks at his feet.

Lix frowns at him, sits up and swings her legs onto the floor. Leans forward. "Unless, you don't want to."

"I - I do, I just."

"Husband. Tell me, what's going on?" Lix holds out her hand.

Theta strides across the room, takes her hand. Sits next to his wife, leans against her. She rests their intertwined fingers on her stomach.

"I sometimes worry she's beyond helping."

"Then go make her better for the night. Have you told her?" Lix asks. "About the baby?"

"Heavily implied. Nothing gets past Kosch, so I'm sure she's figured it out," he says. "Brax wants you to announce it soon."

"You know what to tell the Ambassador then," Lix says, picking up her work again. "Send the kids up here. Make sure you say goodbye."

"I love you," Theta says.

"I know." Lix smiles over at him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Theta kisses her on the temple. Pauses.

"Wait. You're a bit feverish," he says, holding his lips there. He sweeps her hair back, rests his fingers against her forehead. "Yes, you are. I'll go get a med-scanner - "

"Theta." Lix fixes his lapels, smooths them down over his chest. Holds onto the fabric, tugs it gently. "I'm running three degrees above average, and I have light nausea. That's normal at this stage of the pregnancy, and at this time of day. Don't worry." She taps her hands against his hearts. "And my skin's turning green and I'm breaking out in spots."

Theta grins. "I wouldn't be me if I didn't worry. It's just been a while since we did this."

"The kids are here, Machel is arriving soon for dinner. At least now Tienna doesn't have to set a new place for them. We're all fine. Go, have fun."

"Say hi to Machel for me."

"No, shan't," says Lix, putting her feet back up on the bed, opening her work again. "Tell them yourself. Love you."

The kids tackle him on the way down the stairs. Theta pretends to go down like a ton of bricks, lies sprawled on the cold bronze tiles.

"Your mum wants to see you," he says, Peya clinging to his hands while Fallin holds his feet. "I'm going out for the night. Peya. Wait."

He pecks his daughter on the head, watches her run upstairs. Sits up, leans against the wall. Stands. He's getting too old for this.

"Where are you going, dad?" Fallin asks.

"Koschei needs help on a project for her job."

"What's the project?"

"Have you done biphonetic quantum-mechanics class B yet?"

"No, dad," says Fallin, in the familiar world-weary tones of teenagers saddled with clueless parents everywhere. "We're not even allowed to pick electives until we're twenty. That's a mid-forties class."

"Quite." Theta kisses his son on the head, pats him on the shoulder. "Then I have no idea why you think you'd be able to wrap your mind around it."

"Why would she need your help? You're an anthropologist, not an engineer. You barely passed engineering at the Academy. Borusa showed me your marks."

Theta takes a moment to imagine the content of the sternly-worded letter he'll be sending Borusa. "She just needs a fresh set of eyes. I'm not quite as dumb as you think I am. I'll see you tomorrow."

"What are you doing? Please tell me."

"Maybe when you're older, son."

 

 

*** * ***

_Visit Thirty-Six_

Missy gets her breath back, wipes the sweat from her face. Sits up against the headboard. Takes a few minutes and watches the Doctor dozing next to her, his slack expression, his splayed arms and legs. He's snoring a bit, mumbling to himself.

Missy trails her fingers through his hair, enjoying the sensation, the contrast of the coarse grey strands against her red nails. Traces his lips and the line of stubble on his face, moves her hand down his sternum and the sparse grey hairs on his chest, the pudge of his belly. Across the blades of his hips. The tangled blankets hide everything else interesting. The Doctor mumbles something, rolls over so his back is to her. She arranges the pillows so his neck isn't at such an awkward angle.

Enough sentiment. Missy reaches over to the bedside table and finds a packet of cigarettes, lights one. The Doctor crinkles his nose in his sleep. Wakes with a snuffling noise. He wriggles around. Shoves his face into her side, mumbles something, voice vibrating through her flesh.

"Yeah. Didn't catch that," says Missy, running her palm down his spine, counting each of his vertebrae as they pass under the heel of her hand. She presses her fingers into the dimples at the bottom of his spine.

The Doctor lifts his head. "Put that out. Go to sleep." He rolls onto his side, giving her his back again.

Missy pulls a face at him. Stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray she stole from King Gustav V. Slides down in the bed, turns the lights out with a wave of her hand. She huddles up next to the Doctor, loops her arm around his chest and presses her face between his shoulders, her nose against his C7 vertebrae. The Doctor puts his hand over her own, squeezes once, lets go.

After he wakes up and they both shower, they go visit Jim the Fish. Then spend some time sightseeing twenty minutes after the Big Bang. Morning tea is on the fifth moon of Ersom, where the gravity is low enough and the air pressure consistently high enough that crockery is irrelevant even if you're having soup. During their walk past Claude Monet's garden, the Doctor and Missy catch the man himself painting.

"You're getting the colours all wrong, mate!" Missy shouts over the fence, and they have to sprint deep into the woods to escape the artist's yelling.

The Doctor climbs a tree, just because he can. Missy watches him, a smile clear on her face.

 

 

*** * ***

_Visit Thirty-Eight_

The Doctor is parked on Welchetta when Missy visits his TARDIS out of the blue. She cannibalises most of the machines and scanners in the infirmary to bolster his shield generators.

The Doctor finds her, coverall-clad, emerging from one of the vents near the generator room. She stands, brushing dust off her shoulders. He doesn't even bother asking why.

"I'm feeling paranoid," she says. Pulls out her scanner, checks something. "Just, feeling it."

"The TARDIS seems to agree with you," the Doctor says, patting the wall. "She didn't tell me you were doing this. You didn't tell me you were doing this."

Missy bobs down to drill the vent panel back in. "Well," she says, and starts drilling loudly, and the Doctor doesn't hear the end of her sentence.

"Again," he says, when she's finished.

Missy shakes the vent, nods with satisfaction. Stands back up and hands him the drill. "Well. Sometimes we agree on things, I suppose. Do you want a curry? I want to get a curry. Let's go to India."

"Can I put my tools away first? Actually, can you put my tools, which you used without my permission, away?"

Missy puts the drill back in his toolbox, hefts it up. Starts walking.

"Question," she says, and the Doctor follows her.

"What?"

"Why do you have my Type 64 TARDIS perception filter gutted and lying around your workshop?"

"You've never had a Type 64. It's not yours, it was the Rani's. I thought I needed it to fix mine way back when, but I ended up fixing this one's with a bit of al-foil. I need to replace that, now I think on it."

Their boots clump across the floorboards.

"Funny," Missy says. "She stole that perception filter off me."

"She did not. Did she?"

"Did. I was infuriated. After all we went through with that dinosaur," Missy sighs. "Why are you working on it now?"

"Oh, I. Have a theory about. Something," the Doctor says lamely.

"What an illuminating statement. You should be a lecturer," Missy says.

"I'm seeing if I can reverse engineer a perception field to work on Time Lords. I _thought_ I'd managed something along those lines when you were Prime Minister - "

"You most certainly did not."

"I remember. Vividly," the Doctor grimaces. Steps in front of Missy, opens the workshop door for her. She brushes past him. "Well, if I have the resources now, it could come in handy. For other Time Lords. Just a little part-time project for myself."

Missy slots the toolbox onto its shelf, wipes her hands on her pants. Tucks her hair behind her ears.

"Did you come dressed like that?" the Doctor asks.

"I did," she looks slightly surprised, leans against the workbench. Fiddles with one of the grimy drivers the Doctor pulled out of the perception filter. "I've actually left some clothes here. I'm going to shower and wear them."

"Do you want to go to India?" The Doctor takes the driver off her, examines it.

"Chennai. 1946. When it all starts to kick off."

"I don't _like_ Chennai in 1946."

They go to India, but not 1946 and not Chennai. Missy gets in a fist-fight with Ghandi. It's one of those days.

 

 

*** * ***

_Visit Forty_

Missy drums her fingers on the table, waits for her coffees to be deposited in front of her. Shifts in the slightly uncomfortable metal seat. The waiter puts the mugs before her, and she thanks him. She starts to tip the sugar cellar into one mug, glances round the crowded museum cafe that hums with noise. Lets her gaze calmly pass over table number 43 in the corner, and the dark-haired girl who sits at it, drinking a very tense cup of tea. Her nose-piercing is light purple today, matching her violet leather boots. Missy looks back at the menu board. There's no custard tarts here. Crying shame. She looks at the cash registers below the boards, nods politely to the waitress who has just walked in from the kitchen. It's one Clara Oswald, murder in her eyes. Missy smiles sweetly.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

Missy looks up, expecting to see the Abomination, then down, at a small, sticky-looking child. It's got chocolate on its face. She stops pouring sugar, finds her spoon and stirs the gloopy mix. Wrinkles her nose.

"I like my clothes," she says. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Cause I like the Clangers."

"I like the Clangers, too. I should get a Clangers shirt." Her spoon clinks. "Do you have a name, kid?"

"Riley."

"Do you have parents?"

Riley points. "My mums are over there." Two women at another table are chatting over milkshakes. One, with the same dark skin, dark eyes and frizzy hair as the kid, waves and smiles awkwardly. The other is blonde and pale and vaguely reminds Missy of Lucy. She waves at them both.

The darker woman calls, "Riley, stop bothering that lady!"

"It's fine!" Missy calls back, waves. "She's not!"

"Dp you have parents?" Riley, presumably, asks.

"Not anymore," says Missy. "My parents died a long time ago."

"Oh. What did they die of?" Riley asks. It's refreshing.

"Nothing you need to worry about. Twin heart-attacks, more or less. Old age. You know, when people get really old and die?"

"Yeah. I'm not that old."

"No. You're not. Probably."

"My mums are alive, they're over there."

"I know. You just told me."

"Hey, hey, sorry that took me so long," the Doctor says, coming up behind her, patting her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Missy taps her cheekbone. The Doctor leans down and presses his lips there. He comes round the table, takes his seat, looks at their coffees.

"Which one's mine?"

Missy points, disdainfully, at the sugared one.

The Doctor notices Riley for the first time, looks away, looks back. "…Hello," he says, suspiciously. "Missy, who is this?"

"I'm Riley, and I like Clangers," Riley says, unprompted.

"She's Riley, and she likes the Clangers," Missy says dryly. "Her mums are over there. Why are you at the museum, Riley?"

"I like dinosaurs," Riley says, fiddles with the hem of her t-shirt. "And my sister is at school and got to come here and see the dinosaurs but I didn't and I cried so now I'm here."

Missy sips her coffee. "I like dinosaurs too. I rode a Stegosaurus once."

"No you didn't, you're not that old."

Missy winks at the Doctor, and he grins. The Doctor steeples his fingers, watches Missy and the little girl.

"You caught me. It was a Giganotosaurus. What's your favourite kind of dinosaur?"

"Tyrannasaurus Rex," Riley says, holding her hands up like little arms in front of her chest. "They can eat anything!"

"Well, not everything," Missy says.

The Doctor takes a sip of coffee and grimaces.

" _How_ could I have messed that up?" Missy says.

"It's too bitter," he explains, grabbing the sugar-cellar.

"But they're big and can eat most things," Riley says earnestly. "That's pretty cool."

"It is, it is."

"Riley, I told you to come back," says one of Riley's mothers, the blonde one, striding up to the table. "Sorry, I do hope she wasn't bothering you."

"No, no it's fine," Missy says airily. "Reminds me of our daughter when she was that age."

The Doctor chokes on his coffee. Both Missy and Riley's mother give him funny looks. The woman picks up Riley, holds her on her hip. Riley butts her head against her mother's shoulder, twists to look at Missy. Missy lets her gaze shift to Clara again. She's in the corner now, talking intently with the Abomination.

"What dinosaurs do you like?" Riley asks.

Missy shrugs. "Same as you. The carnivores. Will you be a palaeontologist when you grow up?"

"I want to be a fire truck."

Missy and the Doctor nod sagely. Riley's mother grins. "She means - "

"Oh, we know," Missy says. "Our girl, she wanted to be a, a - what was it?" She looks at the Doctor, who stares back, suddenly dumbfounded. "A satellite? No, no, it was a space station."

"What does she do now, then? Is she an astronaut?"

The Doctor rubs his mouth. "She's - "

"A teacher," Missy says. "English. Just started two years ago, we're very proud. Loves Austen."

"That's wonderful. You two are such a lovely couple. Oh, it's nearly four, we better get going. Say bye, Riley!"

The Doctor and Missy say their goodbyes and watch the small family leave the cafe. The Doctor doesn't look at Missy as he drinks his coffee, dabs his mouth with his napkin.

Missy grumbles. "Well, what was I meant to say?"

He shrugs, staring into his cup. "Quick lie. Nice work." Keeps staring.

"Come on." Missy lays her palms on the table. "Hit me."

The Doctor looks up, startled. "What?"

"No, I meant - out with it. What's on your mind?"

He shakes his head. "I just don't. Understand. Why you said all that. How you said all that."

"I've had practise. We're okay, Doctor." Missy rests her chin in her hand, looks over at him. "It's okay. Take a minute."

In the corner, someone's baby starts wailing, making the noise of the cafe worse. Missy rolls her eyes. The Doctor leans back in his chair and covers his face with both of his hands. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, lets it out slowly. Missy watches him and waits, stirring her coffee idly. The Doctor straightens up, gestures at her. Missy taps her spoon on the rim of her mug, picks it up and takes a sip.

"What was I meant to say?" she says. "No, we don't have kids? Or we did? That she had a gift for engineering and clearly adored it? That she fell into a lake just before she was nine and drowned and no one found her until it was too late? That baby Gallifreyans aren't capable of unassisted regeneration?"

Missy puts her mug down with a clunk. Coffee slops over the side onto the table, drips onto her skirt. "That we're, according to you, not a couple? You left me, in the end." Missy notices the spill, swears under her breath, swipes at the stain with her napkin. Gives up. "This _is_ hard for me. These conversations. How can we talk about anything civilly without it being incidental? We spent two thousand years fighting, which I still enjoy, and that's habit-forming. Intimate conversations without the added pressure of, I don't know, an exploding planet or, Rassilon's gauntlet, are weird." She shakes her head. "This is me trying, I suppose. Sorry if I'm being too brusque. It's just been so long. It's been on my mind. She's been on my mind. You brought her up, back in France. This was you."

"'S'okay," the Doctor mumbles. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."

It's the Doctor's turn to tap the table. He stares at his own fingers, watches how they press against the worn, marked wood of the tabletop. Remembers how Koschei hadn't spoken for three weeks after their daughter had been cremated. Remembers how they woke each other up with the same nightmares. Remembers having to be physically forced out of the funeral chamber by his brother. Remembers - he shudders, sets his jaw, tamps down on the thoughts. Doesn't let them get across to Missy. 

Missy continues unabated, doesn't seem to notice his reaction. "Saying it out loud doesn't make it any less true or false or real."

"It makes it less sacred," the Doctor mutters, knowing she can hear him. "She was _ours_ , Missy. For so long, she's been ours alone, and now you've told two people in as many decades. Why? Why now?"

"It's been far more than twenty years since I saw Clara," Missy lies, staring at the woman herself in the background. "And, a reminder. I never told Clara she was ours. Just mine. And Clara's dead, so it's just between you, me, Riley and the lesbians. Though at a guess, the blonde is bisexual. Do humans have bisexuality at this point?"

The Doctor shakes his head helplessly. "I just - I don't know."

Behind him, Clara Oswald moves slowly from table to table, picking up dirty cups and trays. Missy pretends to not see her. Someone finally settles the damn baby down.

"You wanted to talk more. This is what this is all about. You can have trouble _having_ the conversation, but be glad it's being _had_. We have a lot of fun and that's important. This is one of the times that isn't fun, but it's more important still." Missy purses her lips. "I don't like having to be the sensible one."

They sit for a moment, the cafe loud around them. The Doctor brushes away some sudden tears. Missy hands him one of her napkins. Presses her foot against his underneath the table, taps their toes together. The Doctor clears his throat, shakes himself and meets her gaze again. She smiles at him. It's soft.

"What did you need at the museum giftshop so badly?"

"They do great fudge." The Doctor drinks his coffee, taps his pocket. "You know, she would have hated the Clangers."

"Shut up, she would have loved them."

"Can you see the average Time Lord trying to watch the Clangers?"

They both take a minute.

"Can you _imagine_ Borusa - " the Doctor starts.

"They're fascinating. I don't understand Earth, but the animals really do have such variety here. Never seen them in the wild though. Why are you smiling?"

"We should get you a Clangers shirt. Clanger apron. Clangers boxers," the Doctor points at her. "I've actually seen those."

"I don't wear boxers anymore."

"Wear them to bed."

Missy wiggles her eyebrows. The Doctor grimaces, and she laughs, reaches out, takes his hand. They thread their fingers together.

"We should. It's nice, having more of my own things around my TARDIS. Having you around. Feels less like a Time Lord War Machine. More like a me-flavoured War machine."

"Your TARDIS feels slimy."

"You say that. I just don't feel it. You're slimy."

And then Clara makes her approach, notebook in hand, fake smile plastered in place. She gives the Doctor a tense grin, Missy a brief but remarkably intense death glare. Missy's impressed. Slowly, the Doctor releases Missy's hand. Missy reaches out with her mind, onto the very edge of the Doctor's conscience. He doesn't even know he's doing it. So. Missy allows him to let go, folds her own hands neatly in her lap.

"Yes?" Missy asks. "Is there something wrong?"

"Just checking on you both!" Clara says, with a cheery, false tone, looking at the Doctor intently. "How is everything?"

"Fine, thanks," the Doctor says, nodding at her. Missy watches Clara's expression as the Doctor's eyes flicker over her face, unrecognised, unaware. Oh, it must be torture. "We're low on sugar, but you can deal with that in your own time."

"You sure? You're all okay?" asks Clara again. She wrings a dishtowel between her fingers. "Is she bothering you?"

"No, the kid's fine. I like kids, when they're quiet," the Doctor says, drains his cup.

"You're sure you're okay?" there's a tiny note of desperation in Clara's voice. "You don't want some food?"

"Peachy," says Missy. "Honey. Shall we go? I want to leave."

"Uh, yes. Of course," the Doctor says, taking out his wallet.

"Already paid at the counter," says Missy, waving her hand dismissively. "Come on."

"Yes. Thanks," the Doctor says to Clara, turning his head in her direction but keeping his eyes on Missy. "Walk?"

"Can we just go back to the TARDIS?" she asks.

"Yes, yes, sure."

The Doctor doesn't even look at Clara as he leads the way out of the cafe. Missy leaves the coffee spilt on the table; decides to not let herself look back at Clara. Settles for linking her arm through the Doctor's when he waits for her at the door.

"Yours or mine?" the Doctor asks, when they're out of the museum and blinking in the bright sunlight. "Or maybe we could take that walk?" he asks.

"If UNIT arrests me, it's on you," says Missy. She loops her arm around his waist, feels him tense up, make himself relax. "You know London better than I do."

"Yes, I do," he says. "This way. Actually, wait. Did that waitress look familiar to you?"

"I think she just had one of those faces," Missy says. "After over two thousand years, one tends to see some repeat."

"Probably."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Forty-One_

"When are you free next?"

"I think you've got more on, considering your situation," says the Doctor.

"Bowling?" Missy asks. "Ooh, we could go hiking!"

The Doctor gives her a look. "I'm not bowling with you. You always cheat."

"My team's just better than yours."

"And hiking is just - out of the question."

"Sex club in zero-gravity?"

"So far out of the question it's not even in the appendix, Missy."

"What's she saying, Doctor?" the UNIT Guard says.

Missy leans against the bars, switches from Gallifreyan to English. "I'm telling him exactly how I'm planning on escaping. He's giving me tips on your ventilation systems."

"She's complaining about the food," the Doctor says, stepping back from the cell, shoves his hands into his pockets. "She doesn't like cheese."

"Duly noted," the guard - Natasha - says. "More cheese."

"I'll be back in a week to check in," the Doctor says. "Send my best to Kate Stewart."

"Yessir," says Natasha, and Missy chuckles.

"Don't salute," the Doctor manages to get in. Natasha twitches, holds herself still, hands by her sides.

"Nice work," he says, and leaves.

Missy escapes six days later. There are no fatalities. The Doctor tries not to let himself hope.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and all your wonderful support!


	7. green lights and water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up, must come down. Metaphorically and literally. It's all downhill from here.

 

 

 

> _I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal. - Our American Cousin.  
>    
>  _

_A visit, two thousand years ago._

Afterwards, they lie on the floor in the dark. Theta gets his breath back while Koschei climbs up onto the bed. He hears her moving the covers around. Can see her reflection in the window. Watches her curling up on her side like she used to. Her breathing evens out, and Theta wonders if she's fallen asleep just like that. She always used to.

"Are you staying?" Koschei asks, finally. Her voice is thick.

Theta stands. Crawls in next to her. She lies with her back to him. He studies the curve of her shoulder and neck in the moonlight, the four little freckles on her shoulderblade. The scar at the base of her spine from an engineering accident. Her curly hair spreads across the pillow.

"Kosch," he says. "How are you? Really."

"As to be expected," she says.

"Am I missing something?" he asks. "You usually want to talk."

Koschei sighs, rolls over and faces him finally, eyes strangely dark and glinting in the pale moonlight. She blinks, studies him. Reaches out with one hand and cups his face. Theta leans into the touch. She draws her fingers up into his hair, strokes the strands back. Traces the shell of his ear, his eyebrows, the length of his nose, down his philtrum. The shape of his lips, the tiny dimple in his chin. She presses her thumb to the corner of his mouth.

"Let's go again," Koschei says, sitting up, pulling the blankets down, straddling him. "Nine hours till morning."

"Koschei, I'm tired, I had a long day with the kids - give me five minutes," he protests, and Koschei abates, lies down on top of him, presses her face into his neck.

He strokes her back. Knows what's coming next, and it does.

"Do you love her more than me?" Koschei asks. Her voice buzzes into his skin.

"I love her differently," says Theta. Turns his head slightly, kisses along her neck, noses into her hair. Keeps rubbing her back. Resorts to the old script."I knew you first. You are the first person I had sex with. You are the first person I wanted to marry. You always said no, remember?" Waits for her to nod, which she does on cue. "We had a dau - "

"Don't," she whispers, and he stops.

Feels her eyelashes tickling his neck as she blinks.

"You are the first person my mother willingly nicknamed," Theta says eventually. Kisses her neck again, feels her pulses thrumming. "I'll never stop being jealous about that."

"You kiss differently now. You're used to how Lix kisses." She moves off him.

"I guess I am," he says. "'M sorry. She _is_ my wife, Koschei."

"Don't be sorry. It's the natural progression of things." Koschei leans over and brushes their lips together. "Just don't forget."

"What would I forget, Kosch?"

She sighs. Wriggles in the bed until she's higher on the cushions, his head tucked under her jaw. "Any of it."

"Good and bad."

She tenses up. "It wasn't all bad, was it?"

"Of course not, Koschei."

"Then why did you leave?"

Theta traces his fingers up her side, from her thigh to her hip, to her waist, rests his hand in the small of her back.

"You asked me to go," he says. "You told me, and I left."

Koschei presses her mouth into his hair, tugs on his earlobe. "I miss you."

"I do too, Kosch. I like this. I like these nights."

"You can come with me on this assignment," Koschei says, and he regrets saying anything. "They'll take you. I feel like you're vanishing into this normal Time Lord Time Lady Time gentry life. A Rassilon-approved existence. You're - normal now. Aren't you bored? Isn't it stifling? Come with me."

Theta leans up, makes Koschei meet his eyes. Strokes his thumb along her cheekbone. "You know you can't ask me to do that. I'm not leaving her or the kids."

"You've made your decision," Koschei says, leans over and kisses him. "Remember to wake me up before you leave. I want to say goodbye."

"I will," says Theta. Knows he won't. Doesn't let that thought get across to her. Hates himself a tiny bit.

Koschei kisses him again, sucking his lip into her mouth. Moves so his hand is between her legs. "Eight hours, fifty minutes. Please, Theta. I feel like we're running out of time. Touch me. Please."

"I'm going to miss you," Theta says, cupping her thighs. "Don't do anything reckless, Kosch."

 

*** * ***

  _Visit Forty-Three_

Missy practically beats his door down. The Doctor opens it, stares at her in alarm.

"The Marishara Nebula," she says. "It finally caught on fire. We've only got one chance to see it before the point becomes closed off."

The Doctor steps out of her way, moves towards the console. Missy slams the doors shut, follows him, watches him pressing buttons and flicking switches.

"You know on the classic models, if you engage the stabilisers as you take off the parking brake, I find you get a steadier landing."

"You know, I find I don't have three hands."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Forty-Five_

"I've no idea. How about tennis?"

The Doctor gives Missy's boots a withering look. "Neither of us has ever played tennis or showed the slightest interest in it. Ever."

"What's that one with the bats and sticks you like?" Missy asks. "Golf?"

"Cricket. You know it's cricket. You need more than two people to play cricket, and you don't have any other friends."

"Such a kind, gentle reminder. You hold my feelings delicately in your hand like some kind of deformed sparrow. Not like your friends would want to play with me anyway." Missy rolls out from under the water filtration system. Stares up at him, clicks her fingers. "I need a titanium spanner."

The Doctor finds it in the toolbox, hands it to her. Pushes her back under the machine. "Just pick something you like doing. We're not invading anything."

"I'm happy here." There's a grinding noise, and the dripping stops. "Ah, perfect. Just like me. I'm done."

He still has his foot on her trolleyboard, and so he rolls her out. Missy smiles.

"Did you know there's a secret lake on Titan where you can ride giant colour-changing jellyfish?"

"I refuse to believe that until I see it. Do they sting?"

Missy shakes her head. "You can't ride them if they sting. Falling off would be rather unpleasant."

The Doctor gives her his hand and helps her up. She stands beside him, squeezes his fingers. Lets go and starts gathering up the tools.

"I helped with the genetic engineering. Mostly I designed the tanks and filters." she says. "My God. That was years ago. _Centuries_. I'd love to see what they've done with the place."

"What are the coordinates?" the Doctor asks. "Wait, you helped build giant colour-changing jellyfish? Who asked you to?"

"Yes. Yes, I did - just after I was exiled. I needed, well I thought I needed contacts in this quadrant of the universe. I was wrong, but they were some damn good jellyfish."

"How did you get into that line of work? Who gets a military engineer accused of destroying half the fleet - ah. Oh, of course. Who else. Do you know what happened to her?"

"No, no. I don't." Missy says, studying her feet. "I did appreciate her taking me in. Treated me like dirt, but that's how she rolled. What about you? Did you hear anything about the Rani during the war? I figured they'd want her for her skills in not being a regular Time Lady."

The Doctor shakes his head. "They didn't tell me _you_ were alive. Why would they tell me about her? I'm just amazed she took you in like that. You never told me she did."

Missy still looks at her feet, shrugs, shoves her hands in her pockets. "I had just been exiled. I didn't know what I was doing, where I was going."

"You never talk about that."

"I'm not going to. It was highly unpleasant." Missy turns to leave.

The Doctor takes her hand again. Missy turns, moves so his arm is draped over her shoulders and their hands are clasped in front of her chest. Leaving the toolbox on the ground, they start walking towards the console room.

"What are the coordinates?" the Doctor asks, after a couple of minutes of wandering the corridors. The TARDIS must be in a mood.

She tells him, gives him a small smile. "Jellyfish time. I'm going to get dressed."

"I'm looking forward to this," the Doctor says. "Can I wear this?"

"You most certainly can not. You have boardshorts. Those ones with the pineapples."

"Changed my mind. Let's not go."

"Oh my friend. Let's."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Forty-Six_

The film finishes. They both stay silent, staring at the screen. Around them, the theatre is quiet and still. Occasionally someone drops their popcorn, and the soft thuds of the puffed grain falling to the sticky carpet is all that can be heard.

"When's the next session?" Missy whispers, still staring.

The Doctor blinks away the images that have been burned onto his retinas. "Twenty minutes. The nine o'clock show."

"Let's go," says Missy, and they hurry out of the theatre and join the ticket queue.

After a few minutes of waiting there, Missy grabs the Doctor's elbow and pulls him through the crowd to the front of the line. Slams down a hundred-pound note, which stops the cashier from sending them straight back to the end of the queue. Or maybe it's the manic look in Missy's eyes.

"Two more for Mad Max Fury Road," she says. "Keep the change."

"And a coke," the Doctor adds. "One of those frozen ones with the ice-cream on top."

 

*** * ***

 

_Visit Forty-Seven_

Sirius to Andromeda to closing up a black hole in the further reaches of the former Sontaran Empire. Picking out bits of pumice from the rings of Saturn so the giant colour-changing jellyfish have something to play with. New Zealand is much better when he has someone with him. Missy makes him try skydiving for real.

He's drowsing on the daybed in Sir Edmund Hillary's house, watching the colours of the sunset play out over the white plaster ceiling. The door opens with a low creak and the Doctor senses Missy without having to look at her. She shuffles across the plush carpet, lies down on the bed next to him with a quiet sigh. Leans against him, warm and familiar and props her head up against the Doctor's shoulder. He wraps an arm around her waist. They watch the colours together. The clock ticks. The trees rustle outside.

 

 

 *** * ***  

_Visit Forty-Nine_

The Doctor sees another 1950s diner - or is it the same one? On the planetary shard of Olin. The greater planet, Squisnes, had been hit by an asteroid and shattered, but the unique gravitational forces enacted on it - three suns, one orbiting microplanet, and two stars spaced just the right distance apart - meant the planet stayed almost intact and only the crust was affected. The larger plates of the crust are connected by elasticated bridges, or in two cases, travelators.

He sits on the edge of the Tetran shard, dangling his legs into the warmth of the exposed core, staring at Olin. The wind whips up the gasses from the planet's core, obscuring his vision. When they clear, the diner is gone.

He checks his phone, counts on his fingers. Drums his hands on his thighs.

 

Limpeb, populated by various refugee species and immigrant groups, is one of the most vibrant and artistic planets in this system. Massive cities and then vast farming belts cover most of the planet's surface, except the lava-covered poles. On the outskirts of one of the smaller farming towns, the Doctor helps a family of twelve sink a spiral-shaped well and they invite him to dinner.

"I can't take your food," he says. "You're still building your farm, your new life."

"All refugees are welcome here," says the mother. "If you won't take our food, please. At least listen to my daughters and sons play their music."

"I would be honoured," the Doctor says.

And then he sees the diner again.

The Doctor sits and listens to the siblings play, and it's wonderful. The diner stays there, stays there late into the night. At one point the youngest girl hands him a guitar and he joins in playing too, and before he knows it, the sun is up. The Doctor stays for breakfast, doesn't notice when the diner leaves.

He could be imagining it. That's becoming increasingly doubtful.

The fifth moon of Diina, with its rainbow sky. The diner sits, almost sheepishly, behind a rocky outcrop. It's on Byungan, a planet habited both by miniature and ginormous humanoids living in perfect harmony and synchronicity. He checks out the Eureka Stockade, and knows that 1950s diners don't exist in mid-1800s Australia. When he turns, there's a Chinese eatery instead, which makes much more sense. Suddenly gripped by paranoia, he takes a brief, tense glimpse at Gallifrey's traditional, terse and rarely released planetary update. If they've caught Missy, that would be front page news and one in the eye for the Shadow Proclamation. If they used the diner -

It's then his phone rings.

"Texting is easier than tracking, and the Time Lords can't see you're doing that," Missy says down the line. He can hear jazz playing in the background; all Earth-based instruments. "Turn your scanner down."

The Doctor dials his scanner right down, enacts his usual security protocols. Makes a note to write a new one or five, because Missy shouldn't be able to see what he's doing. He holds the phone against his ear with his shoulder, starts pressing in coordinates.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at this bar. Los Angeles, the mid-90s," says Missy. "I'm drinking something with olives in it."

"How many olives?"

"Three."

The Doctor types. "I'll see you in a minute. Order me something."

"I already did. Dress nice."

He changes his jumper.

*** * ***

Missy's wearing something black with a high neckline, long sleeves and no back, and the Doctor falters on his approach to the bar. She has four freckles across one of her shoulderblades. He's never noticed those before. Finally, he moves again. The jazz flows smoothly around them, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of rich liquor.

"I feel underdressed," he says. "Am I forgetting an anniversary or something?"

"No, I was just with Frank and the boys earlier," Missy says. "Summer in Vegas and four layers of wool? No thank you." She hands him a brandy, and he sits on the stool next to her.

"Thanks," the Doctor says. He looks around the bar, though he doubts that an entire 1950s diner would have made it inside without Missy noticing. That said. He sneaks a glance at her.

She chews idly on an olive, looks at him with a quirked eyebrow. "Do you think they have crisps?"

"Probably." The Doctor tries his drink, still looking around the room at the well-dressed patrons, all sitting at small candlelit tables and booths. "Hey, is that Michelle Pfeiffer?"

"What are you implying?" Missy asks, too quickly.

The Doctor shrugs. The bartender puts a dish of Pringles in front of them. Missy crunches away happily. She gets halfway through the dish before giving him a second look. She swallows.

"What's got your goat?" Missy asks.

"I'm seeing diners everywhere," the Doctor says. "Not people eating, the place where they eat."

"I assume this is new."

"Seriously? I saw it on Diina V, Limpeb, Squisnes, and I think I saw it on the Planet of the Apes as well. Remember New Mexico? I think I saw it there, too."

"Hm." She orders another drink, taps her nails on the bar. "What bit of Squisnes?"

"Olin, why?"

"I don't know, it could be completely irrelevant. Thanks." Missy takes her scotch, swirls it around idly, admires the colour. "Other than that, how are you? Paranoid?"

"The universe feels strangely smaller with Gallifrey back, I've realised," he says. "They never cared where I was before. Now, I'm constantly. Looking. Wondering, if the diner is theirs."

"They might not be. Just better safe than sorry," says Missy.

"How are you? Really, what are you doing here?"

"I thought you might like this place," she says. "I was going to call anyway, just later. And you know, Michelle Pfeiffer."

"She'll never sleep with you."

"I don't want to sleep with her right now," Missy gives the Doctor a look. He grimaces. "No, sorry, not like that. I want to see you. You know, when we were younger, in the 1980s - or was it the 1970s? When were you in exile on Earth?"

The Doctor shrugs. He's given up trying to figure that out.

"A couple of those schemes I launched. The rockier ones. I just wanted to hang out, but you didn't always take my calls. So." Missy drinks. "This seemed more constructive. Look at how healthy our relationship is now. I thought you knew that."

"War has changed you," the Doctor says dramatically. "I guessed. Didn't want to say, unless it scared you off. You know I liked seeing you. Everyone knew I liked seeing you. We weren't exactly good at hiding it."

Missy chuckles.

"You look nice, by the way. Probably." He leans in his seat, looks at her back again, wants to touch the pale skin on display. Stops himself. "Yes."

"Thanks. I went back to France, the other day. Finished the date with the Nazi."

"How did that go?"

"Well, the Third Reich falls, so in the long run, probably not well." Missy rubs her fingertips together. "Humans always run too hot. I don't know how you stand it."

"I tend not to, these days." The Doctor bites one of his nails. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

Missy shakes her head. They both drink in silence for a few minutes.

"Frank and the boys?"

"Better you don't know. Is it a 1950s diner? That Elvis character, and things? Neon red lights on the outside?"

The Doctor looks at Missy slowly, frowning.

"I was on Hart'cher," she says, takes a crisp, chews. "Hiking. Taking it all in. I've been before, but it's always worth a second look. If you keep pulling that face, the wind's going to change and it'll be stuck like that. Those mountains are beautiful. Have you seen them? The caves with the solid mercury stalactites? And there's this glowing algae on them, grows in perfect equidistant spirals."

"I thought they were stalagmites."

"Let's not even go there," Missy says. "Very few humanoids up in those mountains, even less man-made constructions. In one of the caves, at the back. I thought I was going madder, but it was gone when I turned around. If the Time Lords are tracking one of us - "

"Both of us."

"Well. Standards have dropped if it is them. This would never have passed muster when I was in the army. Hm." Missy reaches into a pocket, pulls out a packet of cigarettes, lights one. Slides the packet across the bar to the Doctor. He slides it back.

Missy exhales. Her lipstick stains the end of the cigarette dark red. "I was a prisoner of war. Don't give me that."

"I'm not saying anything," the Doctor says.

"You're doing that _look_ , the disappointed one. You giant hypocrite."

"Why does it have to be the tobacco ones? There's synthetics that - "

"I think it fits with my aesthetic this time," Missy says, blows out a stream of smoke, and the Doctor has to agree. "Anyway. Moving on."

"It could be a shared hallucination. But, you know-"

"I sincerely doubt that," says Missy. "I mean, if we were to share a hallucination, it would be that this deal of ours is going to last for ever and eternity, with little-to-no-tension. Or that Gallifrey is a wonderful planet with tracts of red grass, silver trees where you flail all over the fields giggling like a moron. That said. Remember that time we stayed out in my father's field all night, just when autumn was just setting in?"

The Doctor examines his hands. "I do. I do remember. Vaguely." He looks up. "Could it be the Shadow Proclamation?"

"Maybe." Missy exhales more smoke. "If you're spotting it more, let's assume you as the main target. I'm jealous. But why would the Shadow Proclamation use a diner? They have memberspecies from all over the universe. Spies for them are far more numerous and usually more subtle. I mean, they're no good anyway, they were tracking me when I first started on the Nethersphere and I dealt with them. But they _can_ be subtle."

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this here," says the Doctor.

Missy taps her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "Fine."

"Just not - in a public bar, in the 1990s. Let's talk about anything else."

Missy smiles to herself, looks at her lap. She counts something on her fingers, chuckles. The Doctor tries to ignore her. She takes a drag, still quietly giggling.

"Fine. I'll bite. What is it?"

"The field, in autumn. That night," Missy looks over at him, the smoke curling up between them. "Was that the first time we had sex? It was, wasn't it."

"Actually, _anything_ anything else. That would be a very brief discussion, if we're honest with ourselves."

Missy laughs, and the Doctor watches the line of her throat, smiling fondly. The Doctor realises what he's doing, makes himself stop. Finishes his brandy. She takes a sip of her drink, taps her nails on the bar.

"I had no idea what I was doing. I was so nervous," Missy says.

"And you thought I was cool, calm and collected? I suppose we've at least gotten better at that. That makes one thing. Terrible Time Lords. Good at shagging."

They both laugh again. The Doctor eats a chip.

"So," he says. "Frank and the boys."

"Frank and the boys," Missy echoes. "Well. I like the desert. I'm not like you. Not a fan of sand, but at least it's flat - "

"Wait," the Doctor says, and orders them both another drink. "Okay. Continue."

Missy tells him the details of what sounds like an intensely and needlessly complex Vegas heist while the Doctor finishes off the Pringles. The Doctor regales her with the time he and Donna dealt with a flock of Vernicious Knids that attacked Roald Dahl's house. Time passes.

 

"And so the President of Beneleben says to me," Missy says, giggling, hours later."'If you want to control the Senate, you're welcome to it. Just enjoy trying to keep up with the pineapples!'"

The Doctor bursts out laughing.

"Did you?"

"Well - no, I figured it wasn't worth the effort and left," says Missy, and the Doctor laughs harder.

Missy watches him with a crooked smile. "I'm a terrible influence." She sips her drink.

"Yes, well." He looks around the bar. "Hm, Michelle Pfeiffer left."

Missy shrugs, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me the one about your wife and the swordfish. That weekend was so great."

"I need to be a lot drunker for that one," the Doctor says, and Missy nudges him. She lights another cigarette as he speaks. "Well. It was the first time all the kids were at the Academy for an extended period, so she says we should invite you round and - "

"Better make this one quick," the bartender says. "Last call."

"Damn," says Missy. "Shame. At the mercy of linear time. How can us mere mortals cope."

The bartender gives her a weird look. The Doctor smacks her on the shoulder.

"Sorry. I'll get her home," he says. "She's pretty drunk."

"Your mother's pretty drunk."

Missy and he gather their things, head outside into the summer night. They pause outside the bar, look at the near-empty street.

"Walk?" the Doctor asks.

She shakes her head. "My TARDIS is just down here. I don't want to be wandering away from it, if this diner wasn't a one-off. I mean, for all we know, it's another loner loser Time Lord with a faulty perception filter. It wouldn't be the first one." She pokes him in the chest, hits one of his shirt buttons. Leans closer to examine it, squinting.

"But I've seen it half a dozen times."

"Yes dear, that's a best-case scenario," Missy snaps. "But I've not doubt the social structure of Gallifrey is shifting after the war. They always do. I'm working on a tracking program for the diner."

The Doctor nods. "Do you want my help with it?"

"Honestly, we probably shouldn't start tonight," says Missy. "I'm too drunk." Missy takes one last drag on her cigarette and stomps it out on the ground. "You should come round, though," she says, loops her arm around his waist.

They start walking, Missy leading the way, resting her head on his shoulder. The Doctor brushes his hand over the small of her back, her skin cool under his palm. He lets his hand drift lower, over the swell of her hips. Holds the fabric of her dress between his finger and thumb. It's soft.

Her TARDIS is a disused, disregarded door on the side of a building, covered in graffiti. Missy digs through her pockets, looking for the key.

"When I said you looked nice," the Doctor says. "I meant, very."

Missy unlocks her TARDIS, holds the door open for him. "You're not so bad yourself, my Doctor. Anyway. Let's worry about the diner tomorrow. We'll play cards."

"Sounds like a plan."

She follows him inside.

 

They don't notice the two dark-haired figures on the other side of the street, one permanently in her mid-twenties with no pulse; the other thousands of years old with the face of a teenager.

 

  *** * ***  

The Doctor wakes up, face pressed into the pillows. Missy looks down at him, seeming small in her pyjamas, an oversized business shirt with the collar rumpled and buttons skewed. He's ninety percent certain it's one of his. Doesn't raise the issue. He runs one hand along her thigh, tugs at the hem of her shirt. Lifts up the hem. Teletubby boxer shorts. Incredible.

"Morning, sunshine," Missy says. "I made tea. Your virtue is intact. There's eggs," she adds, resting a mug of tea on his chest. "Somewhere, anyway."

"Did I sleep in my clothes?" The Doctor takes the tea, struggles up in bed. She has a polka-dotted yellow doona set, for whatever reason. It toes the rather thin line between cute and hideous. "Well, you got my belt. And my socks."

"Not for lack of trying. You had histrionics when I tried to get your pants off. So you could _sleep_ , don't look at me like that. Those things are surprisingly tight, could be dangerous."

"I sleep in my clothes all the time. What did we do last night?"

"Kept drinking. Played cards. Watched the first season of that show you like, the one about the newscasters in the 1950s. It was really boring."

"How much did we drink?"

"I want to die, but only a little bit, that's all I know," says Missy, and he notes the dark circles under her eyes. "Like I said, the show. Boring."

The Doctor puts his mug on the bedside table, sits up properly, struggles out of his jumper. He swallows, his mouth dry. Retrieves his tea, drinks deeply. Looks at Missy and looks back at his tea. Stares at Missy again.

"You have a hickey."

"I know I do, you weirdo." Missy touches her neck, winces. Unbuttons her shirt to show him one on her collarbone as well. Unbuttons her shirt further to reveal a third on her breast. "Do you think our people started wearing high collars because they liked getting their necks sucked all the time? The great concealer of Rassilon. Man, I hope that's true. It must be true. Call your brother, he'd know."

The Doctor stares at the marks, dark on her pale skin. "I…didn't do that, did I?"

"No. The Nazi. Didn't I say?"

"You just said you didn't kill him," says the Doctor.

"Well, I shagged him. That's why - humans run too hot, it's odd. Haven't you noticed?"

"Not recently."

Missy shrugs. "Well, well. You want to see?" She wiggles her fingers next to her temple.

"God, no, Missy - no. No thanks. No."

The Doctor stares into his tea, trying to formulate his next sentence. Missy unbuttons her shirt completely, runs her fingers through her dark, tangled hair and sighs.

"This is great, great," Missy says. "We get all the awkwardness of a one night stand, and I didn't even get to have sex with you. Well. I'm going to shower, because I feel desiccated. Do you want to hang out today?"

The Doctor closes his eyes, slides down in bed. "You've had sex with me before, just not last night."

"Are you - are you jealous, Doctor?"

He pulls the blankets up over his head. Stays silent.

"I'm going to take that as a maybe," says Missy, the mattress shifting as she stands.

She shucks her shirt, chucks it on the bed, walks into the ensuite. The Doctor hears her turning the shower on, stepping inside. He pulls the covers off his head and sits up. The door is half-open, steam curling through it, and he can just see the pink curves of Missy's hip and leg under the water. The rest is blocked by the door. Missy starts singing quietly, some old song from some old war he's forgotten the name and aims of. Her voice echoes. It's pretty to listen to. The Doctor reaches out, finds the shirt. Examines the tag. It is his. There's lipstick stains on the collar. They're hers.

The bed is warm, smells like Missy and fabric softener, and so he falls back into a doze, still hearing the water in the shower. Eventually Missy returns and he listens to her rummaging through her wardrobe. He wakes properly when Missy sits on the edge of the mattress in her underdress, peering around on the floor for something. She glances under the bed, gives up. Looks over and sees him blinking at her.

"I lost my stockings," she says.

"Wasn't me." The Doctor sits up, tries his tea, spits it back into the cup. Missy makes a yuck noise. "'S cold. Does it count as a one-night stand if you don't have sex?"

"I think the kids call it the Sexless Innkeeper, if the intent to have sex was there in the first place," says Missy. "I saw it on that show, the documentary about New York City in the early 2000s. Shall we go out for breakfast? I really don't know where the eggs are. I'm renovating one of the map rooms to make it into a proper piano lounge and most of the kitchens have just up and vanished."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Zeptrez. The glass restaurant. We can walk up."

"No." The Doctor puts the doona up over his head. "No, _Missy_ , it's a _mountain_."

"It's a hill, it's nice, come on." Missy pokes him. "They do hollandaise sauce the way you like it, because for some reason you like hollandaise sauce."

He drops the doona, glares. The effect is ruined by his sleep-rumpled hair. Missy grins at him, bites the pad of her thumb.

"It's a mountain, it's a hike, you're wearing a dress and I'm tired. I forgot you like hiking. Why do you like hiking?"

"You know, I do still have pants," Missy says. "And shoes, without high heels. Do your companions do this to you? Bitch like a five year old?"

"Usually I don't make them walk up mountains."

"It's a hill."

"I'd rather have sex," the Doctor grumbles. "Come on. You can be on top. Do what you like."

"I'm not that easy. I'm going to find my walking clothes."

Missy pats him on the head, leaves the room and shuts the door behind her. The Doctor frowns for a moment.

"I was serious about the sex," he says, sighs heavily. Feels vaguely disappointed in himself. "Right."

*** * ***

They make quite a sight, Missy leading the way up the path followed by the Doctor in his Doc Martens and all black. Missy wears a flat cap, tweed pants, a shirt buttoned over the marks on her neck, and a waistcoat that emphasises the curve of her hips. She and the Doctor both wear sunglasses. The trek up the emerald-green path cut into the mountain ("See, Missy, see, it's a mountain, it says on the sign."), the deep-purple grass waving around them. Bronze boulders dot the mountainside and gleam under the dove-grey sun.

The walk takes over an hour and the Doctor loses his breath, finds his rhythm and loses it again on the way up the smooth path. Missy strides on ahead, occasionally finding a pebble to lob off the side of the mountain to the plains below.

The view from the top of Zepretz is breathtaking. The purple steppes spread out like spilt ink over a table, the orange-tinted river snaking across it towards them. The occasional cluster of bronze rocks glitter in the pale sunlight, while dark mountains loom on the horizon, white snow on their peaks. Missy bumps him with her hip. He folds his arms, huffs.

"This is why I like hiking," she says, points. She's even wearing brown leather fingerless gloves. "That's the Ayenavza River, the metal deposits from the rock on top of that mountain range. We can't drink it, it'll make us sick."

"Bronze deposits?"

Missy nods, adjusts her sunglasses.

"It really is beautiful," the Doctor says, gazing at the valley. He takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. The air carries a faint tang of metal. "Don't see why we couldn't have parked the TARDIS at the top."

"You're the king of walking to the top," Missy says. "Metaphorically speaking."

"Not when I have a hangover."

"Nothing worth having ever came easy, Doctor. Apparently." says Missy, picking up a small shard of bronze and examining it. It glints in the sunlight. She licks it. "Bronze reminds me of Gallifrey." She slips it into her pocket, hooks her thumbs through her belt-loops. "Are you hungry?"

"I can eat," the Doctor says, and they both turn and head into the cube-shaped restaurant behind them.

It's made entirely of glass panes and clear beams of some plastic-derivative. The ground is bronze tiles, dotted with intricate patterns. The Doctor and Missy are psychically scanned as they enter, and find a seat by the north-facing window. The Doctor watches Missy remove her gloves.

As they settle in, a robot shaped like an egg, painted with looping green and purple patterns, trundles out and deposits a pot of tea, a pot of hot chocolate, and four mugs on the table. The restaurant is warm from the sun and he shucks his coat. Missy unbuttons her collar. The Doctor can see one of the dark marks on her skin, peeking out from under the fabric. He makes himself look away.

The other diners are relatively quiet, mostly couples or small groups of hikers. There's two young women at the table opposite them, one in a light blue headscarf, the other an oversized hat. The Doctor shifts in his chair, looks harder. Missy taps his foot with her ankle. He turns back to her, looks at the scenery outside their window. Purple and gold as far as the eye can see.

Missy pours them both a cup of hot chocolate.

"If there's any place to draw out a 1950s diner," Missy says. "It's on a mountain surrounded by plains, in a restaurant made entirely of glass."

"I knew you had an ulterior motive for this wanton act of hiking."

"Nah, I wanted to do this anyway," says Missy. "With or without you. Ah. Food. Excellent."

The egg robot comes back, deposits a plate of poached eggs and hollandaise sauce, vegetarian sausages with tomato sauce and mustard, and toast in front of the Doctor. It puts pancakes and bacon in front of Missy. They both thank the robot and it wheels away, pausing to collect dirty plates from another, copper-topped table. Missy grimaces at his condiments choices, while he drinks his chocolate. He raises his eyebrows at her.

"Technically I didn't ask for it," he says finally. "They just knew."

"It's just jacked up mayonnaise," Missy says. "Mayo gone wrong-o."

"Eat your pancakes, you weirdo," the Doctor says. "I walked up the mountain you chose, I choose the conversation topic."

"Topic-o." Missy finds the maple syrup and drizzles it over her food. "Then pick, honey."

"That's syrup, sweetie."

Across the restaurant, someone drops their fork.

"I'm too hungry for this game," says Missy, grinning. "Sugar."

"No thanks, I'm sweet enough." the Doctor deadpans, doesn't look up from his sausages. "Honey bun."

"I'll see how I feel after the pancakes, pumpkin, they're pretty filling."

"Yes," the Doctor says, swallowing. "I think there is pumpkin in these." He lowers his voice. "Babycakes."

Missy grins. "No, I'm on a diet." She starts cutting up her pancakes. "Yeah, I'm out. My dear."

"I have to ask," the Doctor says. "You don't have to answer. Master."

Missy looks up expectantly, mouth slightly open.

"Sorry, I mean - " the Doctor begins.

The egg robot trundles up again, with a decanter of blackcurrant juice and two crystal glasses.

"Master is a gender-neutral term, at least it is back home. On Gallifrey." The Doctor pours himself a juice, looks at Missy, who shakes her head. "Every other time you've changed your name, it's been less of a flip and more of a complete alteration. You know, your birthname to Koschei, Kosch to the War Chief, War Chief to the Master. Why Mistress?"

Missy chews. "Long story short." She lays her palms flat on the table, swallows. Then she frowns. "On Gallifrey. The second time. You know what they did to me."

"You gave me a vague sketch."

"Tell me what they did to me."

"They tortured you," the Doctor says slowly, wondering if it's a trick question.

Missy nods. "One of the techniques they used, you know, upstairs," she points to her head, makes a swirling motion with her finger. "Involved my names. I mean, I've been female before, and I was still the Master, and Koschei. They did, something. I got out, and I regenerated, and I wasn't sure if I was still myself after what had been done to me. You change your jumpers, I decided to give the name a bit of a change, just to see if it fits better. I might go back, I might stay Missy if I end up male again. And now, my dear Doctor, I will have juice."

The Doctor pours her a cup. Eats a bite of sausage.

"These are actually pretty good, genuinely," he says. "Try some."

Missy reaches over with her fork.

"Even better with mustard," the Doctor adds.

Grimacing, Missy dips one bit of sausage in his little pot of mustard. Puts it in her mouth and chews carefully. The Doctor waits. She shrugs, swallows.

"Not terrible."

"Good, because I want some of your pancakes."

Missy reaches into her pocket, pulls out a silver cigarette case and lights one. She leans away from the table, blows smoke out of the window, which opens automatically, filters the smoke out. Looks at the Doctor.

"Go on, ask. Last question about the smoking, because I swear to God."

"Why did you you start again?"

Missy shrugs, taps grey ash into her empty mug. "Why did you stop?"

"I just did."

Missy opens her cigarette case, holds it out to him. The Doctor takes one and lights it with a click. He inhales, feels the smoke tickling his throat. Missy smiles and pushes her plate towards him. 

"It's veggie bacon," she adds.

"No it's not."

"You're right, it's not."

"I pick the topic?" the Doctor takes another drag, taps it into the coffee cup. Missy nods. "So. Etruscan philosophy and perceptions of gender."

"You're the actual worst. Bring it."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty_

"This is the most boring play ever," Missy says, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Sorry, I really had no idea. Truly."

"You got the date wrong," the Doctor whispers. "Your plan backfired, I know exactly what you wanted to do."

It's April 13th, 1865. Washington DC, the end of the American Civil War. On the other side of the world, China attempts to recover and define itself after the Second Opium War. The British Empire reaches its zenith. The Doctor loosens his collar, takes Missy's hand, warm through her glove. He lifts it to his mouth, kisses her knuckles. Puts it back on the arm of her chair. Missy puts her other hand over his.

"Now shut up, I'm trying to watch," the Doctor says.

"You hate farce."

The Doctor squeezes her hand.

"Doctor, I - "

He squeezes tighter, her fingers crushed together. Missy makes a tiny noise.

"Take a hint, Missy."

She wiggles her her fingers. The Doctor twists her hand, and she crosses and uncrosses her legs.

"Enough," he says.

Interval is finally called.

"Can we please skip the second act?" Missy asks, as they trail out of the box. She loops her arm through his.

The Doctor nods. "Yeah, you were right. I do hate farce. Do you just want to go back to the hotel? Or we can go for a walk. It's a nice night."

"Honestly, Doctor, I really want to have sex. Now."

A passing usher drops his drinks tray. The Doctor stops to help him, but Missy tightens her grip, makes them keep walking.

"Now? Can you at least wait until we get back to the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Okay, because I was getting concerned. You've got too many layers on to try in the bathrooms."

  

Afterwards, Missy lies almost underneath him, holding him in place. She kisses down his face, his neck, nipping at the skin. The Doctor rests his hands on her waist, runs one down to her hip. At this, Missy wriggles against him, tangles their legs together and settles in. Rubs small circles on his back, up and down his spine.

"Good," she says, slightly slurred, pressing her nose into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, breathing in. "Good."

"Glad to hear it," the Doctor says.

The Doctor can feel her eyelashes brushing against his skin when she blinks. He presses a kiss below her ear, feels the question before she can speak aloud.

"Very good," he says and she laughs, breath warm.

"This was a great date," Missy says. "Don't even try to argue this wasn't one."

The Doctor kisses her neck again, closes his eyes. "We did hold hands, I suppose." And with that, he dozes off, warm and solid on top of her.

Missy keeps rubbing his back, feels the ribs and vertebrae and bones beneath the skin. Counts them all carefully. Counts his pulses. Slowly kisses everything she can reach, his neck and shoulder, part of his collarbone. His ear, the bottom of his jaw. Counts his bones again. Gets bored.

"Do you ever get tempted to see what would happen if the Booth-Powell-Herold conspiracy succeeded?" she asks after a few minutes.

The Doctor wakes up, blinking blearily. Lifts his head to look at her. "What?" Missy repeats her question, and he shakes his head. "The Confederacy wouldn't be viable in the long-term. Not enough people, resources, guns, industry. Britain's off dealing with China and can't assist. You don't need to be a Time Lord to know that. Next question."

He rolls off her, onto his back. Missy misses his warmth.

"You know what I mean," says Missy, turning over to face him, her hair spread over the pillow in dark tangles. "Not the re-ignition of the war, simply, cutting the head off of the government. All very Harriet Jones, but everyone's got muskets."

"I think you just answered your own question there. Why do you ask?"

Missy shrugs. "I like muskets."

"I know you do."

Missy runs her hand up his side, slides over and presses up against his chest. Tucks the Doctor's head under her jaw. He noses into the hollow at the bottom of her throat.

"My feet are hanging off the end of the bed. You're too short for us to do this now," the Doctor says.

"Bed's too short. Curl your legs up." Missy drops a kiss on top of his head. Her lips brush the top of his head as she speaks. "I'm enjoying myself. What do you want to do for breakfast tomorrow?"

"I've been meaning to catch up with Jane." The Doctor moves his legs, throws his arm around Missy's middle and rests his hand in her hair. Twists the strands around his fingers, tugs lightly. "You could come."

"There are a lot of Janes."

"Austen."

"I don't like Regency breakfasts," says Missy quickly.

"You made me have breakfast with Thomas Jefferson."

"France during the Regency in Britain isn't the Regency. It's France. Ancien régime France. C'était le temps du régime bourbon et de Napoléon, pas celui des rois anglais." Missy brushes her hand through his hair, down his back. She keeps speaking in French, her voice low. "Actually. You know who does great breakfasts?"

"Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald," the Doctor says sleepily, speaking half in French and half Gallifreyan. "I haven't seen Zelda in ages. We'll talk about this in the morning."

"I wouldn't mind meeting them," Missy says. "Never gotten around to it. And I hated the film of the Great Gatsby, so what's the point?"

"Hm."

"And I always get distracted in the 1920s. Especially in Germany."

"Hm."

"Doctor?"

"Hm. Sleeping." The Doctor sighs, tightens his arm around her. "Bonne nuit, schatz."

"Je t'aime. Bêta." Missy kisses the top of his head again. "Je t'aime."

She feels the Doctor smiling against her skin. "Quite so." 

 *** * ***  

Missy stays with him for about four weeks. There's one fantastic day they spend in the piano room, where Missy noodles on the keys while the Doctor plays the guitar. They break into the Louvre after-hours, because something else has gone wrong with the Mona Lisa. Sitting in front of the painting (which Missy doesn't like), the Doctor tells her all about Romana and Paris, centuries ago. Missy drags him to the gladiator fights in Ancient Rome and then they both visit the Planet of the Apes. Neither of them sees Matt Damon, but they know he's out there somewhere. Missy sleeps in the Doctor's bed, most nights. She's warm.

After she leaves, the Doctor goes on alone, and finds himself feeling proactive about it.

For the first time in years - decades, he realises, with some small amazement - he picks up a new companion. She's from the dusty, farm-belt outskirts of the Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire, where people are scarce and entertainment scarcer. Lahni Kelna-Rei is the second-oldest of twelve children, used to be in charge of her family's orchards, adores swimming and the stars. The Doctor likes her. She's positive.

He doesn't hear from Missy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak French so please let me know of a better translation if you do! Feedback and comments are always appreciated :)


	8. a creative set of coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courage is one of those things you don't realise you have until you lose it.

  
****

 

> _Miracles are like meatballs, because nobody can exactly agree what they are made of, where they come from, or how often the should appear. - Lemony Snicket._
> 
> *** * ***

The diner could be a TARDIS. Chances are, it is. There's little else he knows of in the universe that it could be. Ergo, currently, a TARDIS. Schrödinger's TARDIS. Which in turn, contains Schrödinger's Time Lords; potentially on his side, potentially not. The Doctor pushes this idea away. Focuses on the what, rather than the who. For now.  
****

Rattling around his workshop, the Doctor resumes work on the Type 64 TARDIS perception filter.This involves breaking it down into parts and reassembling them into a different machine that literally repulses the waves made by TARDISes to distract people from their presence. It's incredibly complex, tiring work that he can't even test without a third party's TARDIS - he's far too attuned to both his own and Missy's to even consider trying it out. Everything smells like engine oil and grease and welded metal, which usually soothes him but now makes him more tense. There's nowhere else he can get a spare perception filter, and it will be a cold day in hell before he uses his own for such a project.

Lahni knocks on the door, pokes her nose through the gap.

"Doctor?"

"Hm?" the Doctor pushes up his welding mask, blinks owlishly at her.

"I made a pot of tea. Would you like some?"

The Doctor waves her into the room. Lahni approaches, peers at the bits and pieces of the perception filter he has spread all over the workbench. Several parts sit in a diluted bucket of vinegar, the rust slowly coming away. The Doctor tips the bucket, peers at the metal inside, wrinkles his nose at the smell.

"What is this?" Lahni asks.

"A long story," the Doctor says. "It's going to be a small machine I can use to - you know when you first saw the TARDIS, but didn't quite notice it?"

Lahni nods, her tight curls bouncing with the movement. The Doctor begins to explain the concept of perception filters, but she holds one finger up. Leaves the room. Returns, with the brown tea-tray and two chipped mugs. She pours as he rambles on about the way perception filters are built and act on brainwaves. Explains the diner, in part. Nothing specific. Tells her her doesn't think it's malevolent.

The Doctor takes out his notebook, around the time Lahni leaves again to find some biscuits, and draws a few quick diagrams on how perception filters work, and how this machine should counter them.

"You could have said," Lahni says, once he's finished. "You could have just said, 'you know how TARDISes can make themselves unnoticed? This stops that happening so I can see a TARDIS that I want to notice.'"

The Doctor takes a long drink of tea. "Get those parts out of the bucket would you? Wash them in that deionized water."

"What will happen when you finish it?"

"I'll carry it round with me," the Doctor says. "And when the diner appears, it will engage and I'll be able to concentrate long enough on it to figure out who's inside."

"If it's a TARDIS at all." Lahni dries off the parts with a towel, bundles them in the fabric and brings them over to the Doctor.

"Thanks," he says, and examines a cog from the pile. "It's a TARDIS. It must be a TARDIS. What else could it be?"

"Shouldn't the question be who?" Lahni asks.

The Doctor ignores her.

"Doctor, I thought you were the only Time…person, not on your planet. You said they were all dullards locked on their planet being evil and corrupt and dull wearing strange collars. And that's why you ran away the first time."

"They are, on the whole." The Doctor starts sorting parts by size. Pauses, drinks the last of his tea. "There are a few outcasts and exiles. Me. There was the Rani, not sure what became of her. Romana. Romana," he sighs. "She was assigned to work with me, by Gallifrey, when I had a less frosty relationship with the Time Lords. She stayed away from the planet in the end, until the war came, and she went home to help. The Meddling Monk. Not sure. The Corsair. Dead. And the Mistress."

"The Mistress?" Lahni pulls a face. "The _Mistress_?"

"Used to be the Master. Thought she could use a change. Now," the Doctor claps his hands. "If you're going to stay in here, you're going to help. Do you know what a hydrospanner looks like?"

"That I do, Doctor."

 

*** * ***

 

Lahni's dark eyes light up with the stars. The great Schwamman salt flat, an entire planet's hemisphere covered in four inches of thick briny water, reflects the night sky in incredible beauty and detail. It looks like they're walking on stars. Every few moments, he or Lahni moves, and ripples from their feet roll away into eternity, wobbling the stars before stilling again. That said, the entire place smells like fish.

"The green one," the Doctor points. "That nebula, it's called - well, I can't pronounce it, but on another planet they call it the Seahorse."

"But it doesn't look like a seahorse."

"It does from their angle."

Lahni laughs, points again at the sky. "What's the pink one?"

"We can visit that, if you'd like. It's where the Yunyipple live," says the Doctor. "They drop everything and do this funny dance whenever it stops raining. They get intermittent showers all through winter and spring, it's hilarious. Very fit."

The Doctor shifts, sending a ripple across the smooth water. He watches the wave move away.

"Have you been here before, Doctor?" Lahni asks.

"Yes, a few times," the Doctor says. "But the sky always changes, this planet's orbit is so wide. I first came here when I was about a hundred. It's always worth seeing again."

"Who did you come with?"

Lahni's boots make splashes as she turns, looks at the bright yellow line of dawn on the horizon, reflected back in the water. "Amazing."

"My - " the Doctor laughs. "I came with my uh, I guess you'd say, boyfriend, at the time." He shoots a look at Lahni, who still seems diverted by the sunrise. "He was on leave from the army and didn't want to go back to Gallifrey right away."

"Oh, what's Gallifrey like? You know. The good bits. There must be good bits."

"Lahni. Lahni. That is a story and a half, and I'm going to need a cup of tea before I even broach it." The Doctor takes one last look at the Seahorse that doesn't look like a seahorse. "Come on. You can't be here when the sun comes up. It's blinding."

They start walking to where the TARDIS is waiting, reflected perfectly in the water.

"Gallifrey. Well. It's beautiful, what's survived the war. We had these two huge mountains called Solace and Solitude, thousands of metres high, silver trees at the bottom and gleaming snow at the top..."

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor takes Lahni to the Hydederan Confederation, led by the planet of the Yunyipple; then across to the Planet of the Apes, because really. Everyone needs to go at least once.

The diner is not there.

Back on the TARDIS, Lahni discovers YouTube, which leads to her discovering memes, which means the Doctor gets no peace and finds himself singing about llamas one day when he's shaving.

The Doctor recalibrates the perception filter rejector - which Lahni insists on calling the Numa-Numa-Filter-Filter - to no avail.

Arkansas on Earth in the late 1940s needs saving from a group of giant bugs and the Doctor and Lahni happen to be in the area. The troops of Area 51 are deployed afterwards, to help with mindwiping the local population. The Doctor doesn't know if they'll hold. Lahni discovers milkshakes and thinks they're the best thing since sliced bread. She brings him one on the TARDIS. It's blue and tastes like coffee. Not bad.

Sliced bread, according to Lahni, doesn't exist on her planet, but it will when she makes it back home.

The Doctor doesn't let himself think the phrase, _if_.

Then there's Hynxa, a planet made of crystal all the way down to the core. It glows teal on certain days. Still, the Doctor swears he sees the red neon sign of the diner out of the corner of his eye, until Lahni points out a giftshop and they both get distracted.

A few weeks later on the TARDIS, the Doctor realises and, swearing, he marches off to the workshop and pulls the Filter-Filter to bits again.

The Forest of Enchantment on Pelliot. Huchiccillian square dancing nearly kills them both, but they have a brilliant time. The Saganette Monarchy welcomes them to their planet and requests their help in finding their lost princess. The King is about to crown Lahni instead until the Doctor remembers the Saganettes sacrifice their younger royals and they end up overthrowing the entire system and installing a democracy. It's good, hard work.

In 1960s Australia, while letting Lahni try and steer, the TARDIS nearly crashes into a Chinese submarine. The Doctor is fairly certain something in the timestream has shifted. But there's no greater ripple effect that he can sense, and so he leaves it. Missy would let him know if he'd messed up. The Time Lords would let him know if he'd _really_ messed up. He's missed that, a tiny bit. It's nice to feel certain. It's nicer not having to worry about time reavers.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty-One_

Nine hours in the markets on Maybas sends Lahni round the bend, and she heads off back to the TARDIS for a nap. It could be because he's spent the last forty minutes haggling with the vendor over a packet of silver-lined red-dwarf iron corkscrews. The Doctor shakes himself. No. It couldn't be that. Besides, the TARDIS needs what it needs.

The bolts are carefully stowed in his inside-inside pocket. The Doctor quickly checks the Filter-Filter, silently berates himself for calling it the Filter-Filter and wanders down yet another side alley. He finds another seventeen tables covered in junk, but three next to each other with things certainly worth his attention.

There's a selection of delicate screws and one fine chain on the silversmith's table that he ends up paying a handful of dried Christmas beetles for. The smith gobbles them up as the Doctor moves on, hands in his pockets, trying to focus. The noise, smells and constant motion and colours are getting to him.

An old bookshop catches his eye and he enters the gloomy warmth, carefully steps over the books strewn and piled on the hardwood floor, finds himself shuffling sideways down one set of shelves. The books muffle the noise outside, and so he heads further back, tracing his fingers along the worn spines.

The Doctor sees her boots first, frowns, rounds the next corner quickly, hearts pounding. She's lying on the floor, legs crossed at the ankle, a book held straight above her face. As he watches, she turns a page, bites her lip. Frowns at the text, turns the book sideways.

The Doctor finds his voice. "Missy?" he says.

Missy shuts the book with a snap, sits up. She stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, surprise apparent on her face. It seems genuine.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, dumbfounded.

The Doctor holds up the bolts.

"What are you doing here?" he says.

Missy holds up the book. It's in Fuzrodefan, which explains her confusion. "I like this place. Been coming here for a few centuries, on and off. They make good tea."

"Um," the Doctor says.

"You saw my TARDIS library was limited to tech manuals and war theory," Missy says. "And Rassilon's best speeches, volumes II through to XI. This place has a good vibe. I've been stocking up here and there, mostly here."

Ignoring that she's just said vibe, the Doctor peers at the cover. She holds it up so he can see it better. "Hm."

"Yeah, I'm buying it." Missy stands with a groan. "How's your new human? I heard you'd picked one up. Evildoers grapevine. Looks like it was accurate for once."

The Doctor shrugs. "Lahni. From the outer reaches of GBH Empire, part two. She has eleven brothers and sisters. They run a farm. Chews grass a lot, I'll never understand that."

Missy's nose wrinkles. "I'll never understand - most of what you do. Now. Well." She pats her pockets, comes up with a handful of gem shards. "Guem?" she calls.

A small, stooped five-legged being appears from behind a shelf, holds up a clawed appendage. Missy drops the shards into its claw.

"That should cover all my outstanding accounts," she says, and holds up the book. "And this."

A tongue emerges, sorts through the shards. It bobs its head up and down.

"Yes, Mistress," Guem says finally.

"Cheers," Missy says, tucks the book under her arm, loops her other arm through the Doctor's. "Come on."

She leads them back out onto the street, back down to the main drag, still crowded with tables and vendors and aliens and noise. "Hell of a coincidence," she says, over the din. "Where's your TARDIS?"

"Just north of here. Why? Do you want to borrow some books? You should have said earlier, I don't spend a lot of time in your library. We don't, I should say."

"How are you?" Missy asks. "And yes, but first. How are you?"

The Doctor steps out of the way of a gaggle of five-foot tall geese. "Fine. Why do you ask?"

"You look a bit - " Missy gestures at her face. "Worn down."

"Where's yours?"

"Funny story," says Missy, pulling them out of the way of a sausage-seller. "Long story. I'll explain later."

They eventually find their way to the outskirts, back to the Doctor's TARDIS. Missy leans against the side, raises her eyebrows.

"Uh. Lahni's onboard," the Doctor says, pulling his keys from his pocket. "If you want to come in. I want you to come in, but. Just so you know. Just for a coffee, or something."

"Just a coffee," Missy says, her mouth quirking up into a smile. "We don't run into each other like this. It needs commemorating. Oh, and I do want to borrow some books. I have a list."

"Fine," he says, holding the door open for her. "Come on. I've got some doubled-up copies in the libraries. You can take a look through them, see if there's any you want to keep."

"I'll be quick. No humans need know."

 

*** * ***

 

"Fuck, Doctor, _fuck_ ," Missy hisses, twisting her hands in his hair, panting.

The Doctor licks her neck, feels her pulse thrumming. He presses her up against the bookshelf again, the entire works of Lemony Snicket falling off the shelf next to them. He stumbles on his copy of the _Austere Academy_ , and Missy giggles into his shoulder. He twists his fingers inside her, curls them. She cries out and bites his neck. Flicks his thumb over her clit, listens to her gasp.

"Just wanted a book," he says, and laughs.

Missy laughs too. It turns into a groan when he pulls his fingers out of her. "I'm not done - I, Doctor."

The Doctor drops to his knees, pushes her skirt and petticoats up.

"Good," says Missy, her hands still in his hair. "Good, good good."

"Hold these," he says, and she takes her skirts. He drags his tongue up her slick thigh teasingly. "Now. Mistress."

Her fingers trail through his hair again, then her expression changes. "Wait," she says, and he freezes, leans back, lets her skirts fall back down.

"Are you okay?"

"I think we should move this somewhere else. I heard someone."

They hot foot it to Missy's room, where she shoves him onto the unmade bed, straddles him, works his pants open. The Doctor unbuttons her shirt, palms her breasts, frowns.

"Where's your corset?"

"Easier access," says Missy, grinding against him, making small pleased noises. "What is it?"

"This isn't what we were doing," the Doctor says, grabs her hips. Hard. Missy purrs.

He pushes her off him, onto her back on the mattress, moves so he's kneeling off the bed.

"Just a coffee?" the Doctor says. He slides his hands up under her skirt, pulls her underwear off, tosses it over his shoulder. He rucks her skirt up around her hips, moves his wet lips up her inner thighs, Missy gasping. He bites the flesh, teases at the edge of her stockings with his teeth.

"That joke," says Missy, struggling up on her elbows to watch him suck at her thigh. "Wasn't funny the first time."

"I mean, if you're bored with my book collection you could just say - " the Doctor mumbles.

"Your book collection is - " the Doctor suddenly laves his tongue across her clit, and after so much buildup, it's like an electric shock. " _Doctor_!"

The Doctor leans his head against her thigh. "What, you want me to stop?" he asks innocently.

"You - utter - bastard."

He slips a finger inside her, twists it. "Is this-" he slides it in and out, listening to Missy gasp and whine. He brushes his thumb over her clit again. Missy twitches.

"Either fuck me or stop fucking around, just - "

"A coffee," the Doctor says, slipping another finger in. Missy groans, grinds down on his hand. "You're so wet," he says, almost absently. "You could come just like this, couldn't you."

Missy manages to get up on her elbows, watches the Doctor's face as he watches her fuck herself on his fingers. She falls back on the mattress, reaches down and rubs her clit, sighing with relief. Her head curls back. She teases her nipple with her free hand.

"I could, I could, I c-can - " she sucks in a breath. "But I'll _kill_ you - in the morning."

"That's hours away," the Doctor says. He curls his fingers inside her. It should hurt, but Missy just whines. Increases the pressure on her clit.

Her thighs begin to shake, and Missy pants, groans as she comes, inner walls tightening around the Doctor's fingers. It's not enough. She draws in a deep breath, strokes her fingers across her clit in circles, desperate for more.

The Doctor laughs, dips his head, sucks her inner thigh where he'd been biting it, grips her hip with his free hand.

"Doctor, Doctor please," Missy gasps, moans with relief when she watches his head move, feels his tongue and lips on her cunt. She sucks in a breath, chest heaving.

The Doctor shifts, hooks her knees over his shoulders and pushes his hot tongue deeper. Moves his mouth up to her clit, sucks the nub between his lips. Missy watches his head moving between her thighs and lies back on the mattress, kneading at her breasts. She gasps, hears herself making strange, high-pitched noises.

"Doctor," she moans. "Doctor."

Her hips buck and the Doctor grabs onto them, holds them down against the bed, licks deep inside her burning core. Missy pushes on the Doctor's back with her feet, bites her lip. "Doctor, please, Doctor - "

He just laughs, right against her cunt. Her body burns. Missy groans, writhes under him, and soon her whole body is shaking. She hears herself shouting the Doctor's name as she comes, gripping his hair tightly, and closes her eyes.

The Doctor wipes his mouth on the sheets, flops down on the bed next to her. Raises his eyebrows and grins, then laughs. She loves his smile this time.

Missy's too worn out to laugh, manages what amounts to some kind of slurred chuckle. She reaches over and presses her thumb to the corner of his mouth. Opens her mouth, wants to say something but she's too sleepy to talk. Rolls over so their legs are tangled together. Her inner thighs are tacky. They kiss, and he tastes like her. Missy likes it, drifts off - 

\- Wakes up, her head on the Doctor's shoulder.

"You're beautiful," she manages to say. Her head lolls against his chest. "So beautiful. Have you taken up the oboe as well?"

The Doctor tilts her head up, kisses the corner of her lips. Missy licks into his mouth, feels the warmth of his mind.

"Proximity thing," she manages to mumble against his mouth.

"Was that a question or an observation?" the Doctor asks.

"Both." Missy lets her hand drift down, runs her palm up his half-hard cock. She strokes it delicately. "I want you inside me. Properly."

"That'll go away," he says. "Not even all there." The Doctor reaches down, moves her hands away.

Missy puts them back. "I don't want it to. You can't let me have all the fun."

She sits up.

"Do we have to?" the Doctor asks.

The Doctor catches her look. Missy quickly strips off her shirt, her coat long-lost in the library. The Doctor divested her of her boots while she was sleeping.

"Take your clothes off," she says, unbuttoning her skirts.

"Work, work, work," the Doctor says, and does so.

He pauses to help her with her stockings, and then his pants and underwear join her clothes on the floor.

Missy kneels over him, takes a good look at his body, which he pretends not to enjoy. She takes his cock in her hand, runs her fingers up and down his length.

"I'm not mentally prepared for this nonsense," the Doctor mutters. "Weren't you asleep ten minutes ago?"

"I'm awake now." Missy leans down, kisses him. The Doctor tilts his head back, lets her work her way down his neck, his torso. She licks a hot stripe up his cock, chuckles when he makes a strangled noise. "Looks like you are too."

The Doctor sits up against the headboard, cock flushed and bobbing up near his stomach. "You're the worst," he says reproachfully.

"What are you going to do, spank me?" Missy says, and then wishes he would.

"Another time."

Missy scrambles into his lap, slides herself carefully onto his cock with a sigh, which the Doctor matches. The Doctor moves his lips across her shoulder, up her neck and into her hair. He presses their temples together, and she feels the edge of his mind, like metal shavings and lemons and a kind of soft purple-orange. Hers brushes against his, green velvet and the sharp cold of the ocean.

The Doctor takes her hips and they begin to move together, Missy's breaths coming in sharp gasps. The Doctor bites her shoulder, pumps his hips. They move like this for few minutes, until Missy groans, takes herself off him. The Doctor makes a low noise of complaint, reaches for her.

"Get on your back," Missy says, and he obeys, one hand still hot on her thigh.

Missy slings a leg over his middle, settles herself on his cock again with a sharp-toothed smile. The Doctor moves his hands up and down her body, touching her breasts, her belly, cupping her ass, tightening his grip to the point of pain.

"I feel like I've made a terrible mistake," the Doctor says suddenly, as Missy begins to move. "Oh - oh, I've made a mistake."

Missy rides his cock fast and hard, making them both shout. The Doctor uses his grip on her to pull her closer to his body, his cock hot and deep inside her. Missy drives herself onto his cock, rubs at her clit with her free hand, panting. Their breaths mingle with the wet sounds of their bodies, the creak of the bed. He starts to draw high, sharp noises from her throat.

"Come on Missy," the Doctor grunts, his fingers digging into her skin.

She leans forward, over him, still riding his cock. The Doctor shifts his grip, grabs her ass again, and Missy hisses. His nails dig in, and she squeals.

"I'm so close - " she manages to gasp.

Her hips buck and he holds on tighter. Missy keeps making those high noises that send shocks down his spine, her head lolling and mouth open.

"Oh _fuck_ , Doctor, Doctor, Doctor - "

She's crying his name out, over and over, and the Doctor is meeting her thrusts now, moaning under her. There's nothing in the universe that matters but this, the Doctor beneath her, their bodies, the heat, the noise. Pressure builds in her abdomen, fast, too fast, but she can't stop, and her hips jerk as she comes, head thrown back, eyes rolling into the back of her head. She's shouting something, or maybe it's just noise. The Doctor keeps fucking her, swearing, calling her name.

A few minutes later, she's there again as the Doctor orgasms, pulling her onto him and coming deep inside her. Missy twitches, gasps, her body covered in sweat. She leans forward, still on the Doctor's cock, rests her head against his shoulder. The Doctor slides his hands up, rubs small circles on her back. Runs his hands down again, over her ass, down her thighs. His hands are shaking. They both pant, tangled together. 

The Doctor lets Missy kiss him, rolls them onto their sides. Pulls out gently. Missy whines, keeps kissing him, sucking at his lips. He pulls the blankets up over their shoulders, enjoying the sensation of the cotton on his skin, and tucks Missy's head under his jaw. The Doctor strokes her shoulders, settles one arm around her. Missy presses her nose to his neck.

The Doctor mumbles something, chuckles to himself.

"If you just said, 'just a coffee,'" Missy begins.

"Missy?"

She's asleep. The Doctor strokes Missy's hair back. "Yeah, I did," he says, closes his eyes.

 

*** * ***

 

Missy wakes up again a few hours later, hearts pounding, confused. Rubs her eyes and looks over at the Doctor. He mumbles something in his sleep, twitches, his breathing growing shallower.

Missy closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to calm her mind. Doesn't try hard enough. The Doctor makes a snuffling noise as he wakes, turns to face her. He blinks at her from across the pillows, opens his mouth. Missy sits up on one elbow, leans over and kisses the Doctor gently. He kisses her back, grumbling, eyes sliding shut. Missy tugs the blankets up around them, stops the chill seeping into the warmth of the bed.

"I'm still asleep," the Doctor says. "Go to sleep, go back to sleep - "

Missy kisses his eyelids, lies down with her head on his chest. The Doctor kisses the top of her head, sighs and noses into her hair. Missy listens to his hearts, tracing her fingers along each of his ribs. She tips her head and runs her lips across his skin, breathing him in.

"We're not going round three," the Doctor mumbles, kisses her head again. He brings an arm up around her middle. "You're really clingy tonight. Is there something on your mind?"

"Nuh."

"You're thinking quite loudly."

"It's just noise, really," Missy says, settling her head under his jaw. The Doctor grumbles. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You kissed me."

"You were already awake. 'M sorry."

The Doctor shushes her, squeezes her waist.

"You're a giant dork," Missy mumbles.

"Yeah, I know. Go back to sleep."

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor leaves Missy sleeping, tucks the blankets up around her. Showers quickly in her bathroom, shuffles around finding his clothes strewn on the floor. Takes one minute to brush Missy's hair back from her face. She smiles in her sleep.

Buttoning up his waistcoat, the Doctor heads towards the kitchen, changing directions when he hears Lahni shuffling around in the yellow one near her own room. He meanders down the corridor, Lahni turning around when she hears him enter. The kitchen is far more yellow than he remembers, the fridge the colour of butter, all the tiles patterned with different kinds of yellow flowers. The tiles on the floor are sunshine-yellow and cream. It's blinding.

"Good morning, Doctor," she says smugly. "Tea?"

The Doctor sits down, gives her a look. "Why are you so cheerful?"

Lahni wiggles her eyebrows at him. The Doctor drops his head into his hands. Tries to spontaneously regenerate out of sheer embarrassment. It had once worked for his cousin. Apparently it doesn't work for him. He stares at the table through his fingers. It's a pale golden wood. He wonders where he got it.

"Don't be embarrassed," she says. "I grew up on a farm. I just wasn't expecting you to _pick up_ at a market. I mean, you're like a hundred."

"I'm just going to travel back in time and prevent this conversation from ever happening." The Doctor looks up at the ceiling. Also yellow. "After everything I've done for you. Also, what is this kitchen?"

"Are you talking to the TARDIS?"

"Who else would I be talking to?"

"Well, you said you were married," Lahni says, puts a cup of tea in front of him, sits with her toast and own mug. "To River. I assumed - "

"This is why I wanted to prevent this conversation from ever happening." the Doctor takes a sip of tea. The mug is yellow too. "That's not my wife in there."

"Wife?" says Lahni. "Oh, actually, I thought - "

"River and I have an open marriage. Had. We've never discussed it, we both just kind of assumed. It's quite normal, where we're from. Were," says the Doctor. "My point is. Open marriage."

"Okay. _No_. Can I just say, I thought you were gay," Lahni says, and the Doctor blinks. "Obviously not. You _said_ you had a boyfriend when you were younger."

"I'm not - " the Doctor draws a shape in the air. "I'm a Time Lord. I'm not gay."

Lahni raises her eyebrows. "You know that doesn't actually explain anything?"

"We don't…have those. Words. Well, we do, but we don't. I don't. I'm not interested, either way."

It's Lahni's turn to blink, and look confused. Then she sips her tea.

"You both sounded quite interested last night. So who is she? You didn't actually just pick up some - very loud woman at a market?"

"Can we talk about anything else?" the Doctor asks. "A friend, that's all you have to know."

"Fine." Lahni lays her palms flat on the table. "Did you buy anything at the market after I left?"

The Doctor's wearing the same coat as yesterday, as he'd been in Missy's room. He rummages in his pockets and pulls out the bolts.

"For the time rotor," he says. "And I got this." He takes out the chain.

"Looks nice," Lahni says. "For her?"

The Doctor shrugs, puts it back in his pocket. "Missy doesn't wear necklaces. I got it for the TARDIS. You always need silver on a time machine. And iron. And white star diamonds. And - "

"So she has a name, and the name is Missy," Lahni sing-songs, and drinks her tea. "Old girlfriend?"

"I'm dropping you back home. Eat faster. You're banished for eternity from the TARDIS."

"I'm sure, I'm sure," says Lahni. "Now - "

"Tea," sings Missy, wandering into the room in her skirt and top, sans coat and brooch. Her hair is loose, tumbling around her shoulders. She pecks the Doctor on the cheek - Lahni hides her smile behind her mug - and continues on her way to the bench.

"I'm Lahni," says Lahni awkwardly. "You must be Missy."

"That's nice, dear," says Missy tonelessly, pouring a cup. She drops another kiss on the Doctor's head on her way out. "I'm going back to bed."

Lahni bites her toast awkwardly. Chews. Swallows. Takes a breath.

"So she seems nice."

"She's a bitch from hell," the Doctor says, folding his arms.

"How did you meet?"

Missy pokes her head around the door, frowns at both of them. "What did you call me?"

"A bitch from hell," the Doctor says.

Missy smiles, lips curving. "Nice," she says, and leaves again.

"I assume she's great when you get to know her," Lahni says dryly.

The Doctor rubs his neck, grimaces. "No. She's not a people person."

"She's not a _person_ , is she?"

"No, she's a Time Lady. I've known her since we were kids."

"Missy? She's another rebel Time Person - oh, the _Mistress_. I get it. Yes. Carry on."

"Missy was - "

Missy comes in, takes a banana from the daffodil-patterned fruitbowl, exits again. Pauses at the door, turns.

"Go on," she says slowly.

"Exiled for various activities our people found distasteful," the Doctor says. "Missy, can you - "

"You'll get him back in five minutes," Lahni says, her tone hardening. "You're either in the conversation or out."

"I'm not nearly awake enough for human nonsense," says Missy, and marches off.

"Five minutes?" the Doctor asks.

Lahni shrugs. "You said you'd drop me home today. I want to help with the harvest, remember?"

"I was going to help fix your thresher."

"There'll be other seasons, you can fix it before then. I need to stop putting it off, otherwise it'll just be harder to go back," says Lahni. "And you, you know, have company. You two obviously need some privacy."

"This doesn't happen often," the Doctor says gruffly. He stands, starts gathering the breakfast dishes. They clatter loudly in his hands. "This was, this was, very random. For us. Missy is very special to me, Lahni."

"I guessed," says Lahni. "She's also very loud."

"Okay, off home to harvest? Never speaking of this again?"

 Missy's sitting on the couch in her study, reading a book with her pink tongue sticking out of her mouth.

"Morning," she says. "Take two."

"So. Lahni doesn't hate you. Well done. That's one out of. A lot. Dropped her home."

"Irrelevant to my interests," Missy says, flicking through a few pages. "I've read this before, only got halfway through. Trying to remember exactly where."

The Doctor sits beside her, throws his arm over the back of the couch. He curls a strand of her hair around his finger, looks around the dark, oak-panelled room. Missy turns another page, clicking her teeth together.

"When was that?" he asks.

"When was what?"

"When did you first read that?"

Missy gives him a sideways look under her eyelashes. "I don't remember."

"You're lying."

Missy sighs, snaps the book shut, takes off her glasses, puts on a deep voice. "'I always dress for the occasion,'" she says, leers at him. The Doctor laughs.

"How did you find time that weekend?"

"Oh, you make time. It's important to keep up with your hobbies." Missy opens the book again. The Doctor combs his fingers through her hair, and she pushes her head back on his hand, purrs. "But yeah, what I remember of this was pretty good, so."

"You made time," the Doctor says, sliding closer on the couch. The velvet is soft under his hands.

"That I did."

"Do you think you could postpone reading it a while longer?"

Missy looks over at him, mouth slightly open. The Doctor moves his hand from her hair, traces her lips with his thumb. The book slides off her lap and thuds onto the rug as she turns to face the Doctor.

Missy kisses the corner of his mouth softly, moves her lips along his cheek, finishes below his ear. Breathes out against his skin, looks up at him.

"Of all the bookshops in the universe, you had to walk into mine," she says. "Seriously though, that place is _mine_."

The Doctor threads their fingers together. "I'm okay with that," he says.

They kiss slowly. Missy climbs into into his lap and the Doctor slips his hands down her back, cups her ass. Missy holds his face, tilts it up. Presses her lips slowly to his temples, his forehead, each of his eyelids, the end of his nose, and he remembers a room of tanks illuminated with blue light. Sees, for a brief second, another figure in the room with them. Then the figure, the blue light is gone. One cheekbone, then the other. Missy's hands slip down to his chest over his hearts. Missy leans in, brushes their lips together.

"Doctor, I have something to - " she begins, against his mouth. "You're vibrating," she says suddenly.

"No I'm not," the Doctor says, very aware that something is.

Missy leans back, reaches into his jacket's inner pocket, brings out his phone. Pulls a face. Hands it to him. "It's UNIT," she says. "Answer it."

"I could not answer it," the Doctor says suddenly, his other hand still on Missy's ass. She raises her eyebrows. He answers it. "Hello, Kate."

"Doctor, I wouldn't call except - there's been some kind of ship crash," says Kate Stewart, her voice crackly down the line. "It's alien, been three days. There's life signs but they're not talking to us. Claiming we're not high enough lifeforms. And they don't like our legs. Asking for the Lord of Time. Saying only a Lord of Time can fix their ship."

Missy slides off his lap, sits back on the couch, twiddles her thumbs. She somehow contrives to make the movement theatrical. The Doctor glances over at her.

"Do you have a species?" he asks.

"Just go," Missy mouths, waves him off.

"They're called the Gisonsha," says Kate. "You're not busy, are you? They're asking for you. A Lord of Time. Unless it's rosemary and thyme, that did happen once, in the nineties. Pawned them off with oregano in the end."

"Um," says the Doctor. "The Gisonsha, aren't very trusting of bipedal species. I don't know much about them."

"Gisonsha?" Missy mouths. She claps her hands over her mouth, snorts.

"Can you make them leave, if they just want a Time Lord?"

The Doctor's hearts skip a beat. He looks at Missy, who cocks her head to one side. He holds a finger to his lips, waits for Missy to nod. The Doctor takes the phone from his ear, puts it on loudspeaker. Missy was able to hear it anyway. It was a manners thing.

"Sorry Kate, did they crash or did they land?"

"Crashed, as far as we can tell. Near Birmingham. We've got troops surrounding it now. I've been asked if we should evacuate the city," Kate says. "We're working on that."

"Hang on," the Doctor says, and mutes the phone. "Is this Gallifrey?"

"The Time Lords wouldn't use Gisonsha crashing to draw us out," Missy says. "They wouldn't trust them. And it's far too clumsy."

"This could just be the first step," says the Doctor.

Missy shakes her head. "The Gisonsha are fiercely independent, and they won't kowtow to Gallifrey. Not now. I think it's a genuine crash. I mean, it feels - random. Properly random, you know? No orange bits."

"Yes. You've worked with the Gisonsha, haven't you?"

"Only humanoid to ever successfully do so. Oh." Missy giggles.

The Doctor frowns. "Oh?"

He un-mutes the phone. "Kate?"

"Doctor. What's the verdict?"

"The Gisonsha are - not trusting. Of any humanoids. In fact, I can only think of one biped who's been successful in dealing with them," the Doctor drops his face into his free hand. " _Oh_."

Kate pauses. "It's not you, is it."

"No, it's not me."

"If it's not you then…"

"Yeah."

"It's the Mistress, isn't it."

Missy points at herself triumphantly and grins, throws her arms out. The Doctor nods, rubs her leg, holds his finger to his lips. Missy moves his hand so it's on her inner thigh. He draws circles in the fabric with his thumb.

"I take it from your silence, I'm correct," Kate says. "Doctor?"

The Doctor shakes himself, wonders why he's feeling so, well. Missy holds both of her hands up on either side of her head, like horns. He glares at her and she grins wider, showing fangs. The Doctor lifts a hand, puts it over Missy's face. She butts it away, leans across and licks his cheek, leaving a wide stripe of saliva. The Doctor's face contorts with disgust as Missy doubles up, laughing silently. He grabs her skirt, uses it to wipe his face. Manages to focus on the phone. Somehow. He's a tiny bit proud. Mostly grossed-out.

"Years ago. One of the Master's plans - which ended up being a massive failure, as to be expect _ow_ expected - required the Gisonsha's planetary orbit for a gravity sling," the Doctor says, thinking back centuries, watching Missy's hands as she prompts him.

"Instead of taking the place by force, the Master allied with them. I think the resources of the planet outweighed the - " Missy nods. "Master's usual way of dealing with things that stood in their way. You know. And they were less crazy back then. At a guess, they traded improved technology for their cooperation. Would explain why they need a Time Lord to fix their ship."

"Is there any way around it?" Kate asks. "Could you just tell them, you're the Master and want them to leave peacefully?"

Missy shakes her head, taps her temple, draws a finger across her throat.

"No," says the Doctor. "As hilarious as Missy would find that, on a good day, the Gisonsha are psychic. They'd have comparable readings, and I wouldn't match."

"Should we destroy the ship?" Kate asks.

"They crashed, Kate, they're not a threat. Don't you dare."

"Well then. Can you track the Mistress down? Last time she worked with us - "

"The thing with the planes, I know. There's a chance I can - " Missy shifts next to him, laughing silently again. The Doctor smacks her over the head. "I'll see if I can track her down."

"You've got three hours Doctor. I can't compromise Birmingham for this ship. Even if it is Birmingham."

Kate hangs up. The Doctor puts the phone on the side-table carefully, looks at his lap. Looks at Missy.

"You look really pretty today," he says finally.

"What's in this for me?"

"There's no provision for this in the contract," the Doctor says. "The Gisonsha, really? Missy, they're _useless_."

"You're not winning any favours from me like this," Missy says. "That said, I'll pay to see you pretend to be me. Those gloves are around here somewhere. Oh, and you should try growing a beard, oh man. That would do things for me."

The Doctor stands, turns. He looks at Missy curled on the couch. She lies down, stretches out, rests her hands on her middle. Raises her eyebrows at him. Waits.

"What do you want from me?" the Doctor asks.

She frowns. The Doctor holds his hands out, palms up, opens his mouth. Closes it.

"You really don't - " Missy looks him up and down.

"I _just_ put my pants back on."

"No, you moron," says Missy, stands, straightens her wrinkled skirt. "You just need to ask. For my help. Ask me."

The Doctor stills. "Really? Then - I guess I'm asking for your help. Please. What are the conditions? Why?"

Missy shrugs. "Could be fun. Not like I'm doing anything else today. At least tell them you found me doing something really cool?"

"Fine."

"There is a tiny precedent for this in the contract, which I want to go into, actually. But first - "

"We have three hours."

Missy puts her hands on the Doctor's chest, grabs the lapels of his coat, pulls him against her. "Technically, what we have is a time machine." She sits back down, practically pulling the Doctor down on top of her.

He stumbles, catches himself, hands on the back of the couch on either side of Missy's head. Missy reaches up, kisses him.

"I don't want - " the Doctor says, between kisses. "Can't we Gisonsha now and - " Missy sticks her tongue in his mouth. He valiantly speaks around it. "Gisonsha now - " Missy kisses him. "Gisonsha now and sex later?"

Missy unzips his pants. The Doctor sighs, flops onto the couch next to her. With a satisfied purr, Missy straddles him for the second time in ten minutes, starts unbuttoning his shirt with quick, nimble fingers. She kisses his neck, sucks his earlobe gently. Adds a touch of teeth. The Doctor winces.

"You know when you're beaten," Missy says. She brushes her hand down his chest, stomach. Finds his cock and pulls it out, stroking him to hardness as they keep kissing. "And it _is_ a time machine."

"With the occasional accuracy of a blind robobat with the echolocation turned off."

The TARDIS makes a loud whirring noise that echoes about the study. Missy laughs.

"Now who's pissing her off?" Missy grins.

The Doctor catches her mouth again. Starts unbuttoning her shirt, kisses down her neck. Missy leans back as he works her shirt open and sucks one of her nipples into his mouth. Missy gasps, winds her fingers through his hair. The Doctor palms her other breast, feels her nipple hardening between his fingers. Taking his face, Missy drags the Doctor's mouth back up to hers. Pulls her skirt up. She's not wearing underwear. The Doctor pauses.

"Yeah, I planned ahead," says Missy.

"I appreciate your forethought," the Doctor says.

The Doctor holds her garters between his thumb and index fingers and slowly guides her down onto his cock. Drops his forehead onto her shoulder and breathes out. Looks up.

"What did you need with the Gisonsha?" he asks conversationally.

Missy clicks her tongue. Starts to move on his cock, places his hands on her breasts, makes him tighten his fingers. "I needed the gravity sling to - ah - move Flinka, the planet in the system next to the Gisonsha's out of orbit. Hold them ransom to - are you seriously just going to sit there?"

"Sorry."

The couch creaks again as the Doctor thrusts up into Missy. She grins down at him and then presses his face into her chest. The Doctor holds her hips, traces his thumbs over the top of the bone.

"Flinka out of orbit, all those crazy gases in their atmosphere freeze and solidify, then I - fuck, do that again - I collect them, use them in my ion cannon project."

The Doctor stops moving, looks up at her quizzically. "Why don't you ever just buy the chemicals?"

Missy shrugs. Grinds down on him. The Doctor makes a strangled noise.

"Where's the challenge in that?" she asks.

"Okay, okay."

"Then I'd use the ion cannon to - "

"You know what? Shut up, Missy."

"You shut up."

Missy drags the Doctor's face up to hers and bites his mouth. Missy reaches down and rubs her clit, biting at his lips as she whines. She presses her face against his neck, pants, her breath hot against his neck. The Doctor lets out a low groan.

"Don't stain my couch," Missy mumbles, grunts.

Missy drives herself onto his cock, gasping, moans into the Doctor's shoulder. The Doctor presses his mouth against her hair. They fuck for a few minutes until Missy groans, shakes against him and comes with a sigh. She slides onto the couch next to him, wraps her fingers around his cock and kisses the Doctor messily as she finishes him off.He spills over her hand. The Doctor rests his forehead against her shoulder, breathes out. Missy kisses his head, licks the shell of his ear, humming happily.

"I think I got the couch," he says hoarsely. Then, "Technically it's my couch."

Missy licks her fingers. The Doctor pulls a face at her, catches his breath. She smirks, reaches into his coat pocket with her other hand and finds his handkerchief, wipes her fingers clean. Leans in and kisses him on the cheek.

"You're disgusting," the Doctor says.

"So. Gisonsha," Missy says airily, handing the cloth back. Starts buttoning her shirt back up. "Let's get to it."

"So. Showering," says the Doctor. "That needs to happen before we even think of facing UNIT."

 

* * *

 

Birmingham beckons.

UNIT has a few hundred guns pointed at the Gisonsha ship. It looks almost, but not quite, a twenty-metre high udder made out of dark metal, scorched from its journey through the atmosphere. The once-green fields of Birmingham, which also look oddly like green fields about an hour out of Cardiff, are marred with bits of metal and gouges in the dirt from the ship's crash-landing.

UNIT has a few dozen guns pointed at the TARDIS when it lands. The Doctor steps out first, hands up around his head. The guns are lowered. He drops his hands, hair ruffling in the breeze.

The Mistress steps out behind him, eyeliner on point, hair styled and coat buttoned tightly. Her wrists are shackled together, and she holds these up reluctantly as the guns are raised again. Kate strides over to greet them, hair blowing dramatically in the slight breeze.

"Thank you for coming," she says, poised and calm. "We've got about two hours before the Gisonsha unleash - whatever they're unleashing."

The Doctor holds Missy by her upper arm.

"Missy, tell Kate what you're going to do?"

Missy rolls her eyes. "The Gisonsha are mostly peaceful, in the same way that Sweden - "

"Switzerland," the Doctor corrects.

"Switzerland is. So they do have weapons, they just don't want to use them. They don't want to be here, they don't want guns pointed at them - "

Despite this, the UNIT troops keep pointing their guns, at her and the ship.

"So I'll go inside, with an armed guard, and. Fix their ship." Missy gestures at the ship. "Come out. Continue fighting vampires on Pluto."

Kate gives the Doctor a funny look.

"She was fighting vampires on Pluto," he says tiredly. "Very dangerous vampires. How generous of her to spare her time."

"And let me guess, you want the Doctor in there with you," Kate says. She doesn't look at Missy as Missy speaks, but at the Doctor, who nods periodically in confirmation.

"No, he needs to stay outside. Poor dear, with all you humans. Gisonsha scanning tech is fragile. They might mistake him for me, and as hilarious that would be - " the Doctor catches Kate's expression; Missy does not and continues talking, rolling her eyes.

"We'd all die, and I'd be rather put out. So. He stays here, as a hostage-come-advisor, I go in, with the armed guards supervising me, fix the ship, come out of the ship, with all the armed guards still supervising me - " here Missy glares at the Doctor. "Ship takes off, Birmingham survives, I get in the TARDIS, Doctor gets back in the TARDIS, Doctor takes me back to _my_ TARDIS. We all sleep a little sounder knowing I don't always kick up a fuss every time I come to earth."

"How do we know you won't turn on the guards?" Kate asks.

"There will be nine. It takes eight shots to take out a Time Lady. You've got more than a sporting chance," says Missy.

"How do you fix the ship?" Kate asks.

"The outside damage seems to be superficial," Missy tilts her head, closes her eyes, sniffs the air. The Doctor cringes. "At a guess, the Artificial Intelligence just needs coaxing back online. Psychic interface. Then they can just fly away home."

"Can't they do that themselves?"

"The Gisonsha don't have hands," the Doctor explains tiredly.

"No, dear. I set the system up originally. They've clearly modified it in the intervening - " Missy counts under her breath for a moment. "Millennia, but the damage may have thrown it back to what you humans would call factory settings."

"Right. What's he offering you for this?" Kate says to Missy. "Why have you decided to help us?"

"We're shagging," Missy deadpans, and a few of the UNIT troops shudder. Kate meets Missy's gaze steadily. Missy rolls her head back and stares up at the sky with a fathomlessly deep look of utter annoyance at having to admit this. "I need TARDIS parts. The Doctor can get them for me. It's one of those 'I really like having a working time machine' deals."

"Right," says Kate, looking from Missy to the Doctor. Back to Missy again. "Then. Let's get to work. Give her to one of the troops, Doctor."

The Doctor pauses. Makes a show of loosening his grip, pushing Missy over to one of the burlier looking soldiers.

"Let's get this whole embarrassment behind us," Missy drawls.

"Don't unlock her," the Doctor warns. "She doesn't need her hands free, no matter what she says."

 

* * *

 

Amazingly, it works. It all works really well, until about eight hours after the Doctor bundles Missy back onto his TARDIS, still shackled. Unlocks her, helps her into a bedroom, and stays with her, crammed onto the single mattress beside her as she sleeps off the technology hangover. The room is quiet and snug, Missy warm, pressed up against his leg. That said, he's fairly certain she's drooling on his pants.

His phone rings. He answers.

"Hello, who is it?" Missy mumbles in Gallifreyan.

The Doctor shoves a hand over her mouth. She's still asleep. Better safe than sorry.

"Doctor. Funny story," says Kate, over the phone. "My dad, was a man of his time. I can't fault him for that."

"Hang on Kate," the Doctor says. "I was just doing some repairs, I'm getting up from under the console."

He marks where he's up to in his book, puts that on the bedside table. Missy stirs in her sleep, reaches out for him. The Doctor sits up, moves to the edge of the bed. Keeps his hand over Missy's mouth. Picks up the phone.

"Right, Kate, I'm here. Again."

Missy wakes up properly and bats his hand away. Looks up at him blearily. The Doctor points at the phone, pulls a face, and Missy rolls her eyes. Turns onto her stomach and shoves her head under the pillow.

"My father was a man of his time. But he was also about living and letting live," Kate says. "And you were an alien, Doctor. You are an alien. He always warned me though, whenever your old friend the Master showed up, to keep an eye on you. It wasn't a matter of if or with the Master, but when. My dad said the relationship you had - and I use relationship in every possible sense - was an iceberg. Seven-tenths hidden below the surface."

"I'm fine," the Doctor says, too fast. Makes himself slow down. "Safe on my TARDIS."

"Alone?"

"I didn't even think that bore saying," says the Doctor tiredly. "Of course I'm alone." Missy pokes him in the ribs with her foot. "You're bound to read some alien concepts and gestures as uh, supporting what I think you're implying." He grabs Missy's toes, pulls on the end of her stocking, stretches it out.

"And what am I implying?" Kate asks.

The Doctor pauses.

"I just wanted to double-check you're safe, Doctor," Kate continues. "Martha Jones also sent word - "

"I'd be round for Sunday lunch, only you don't have it," the Doctor says. "I've known Missy a long time, she's one of my own people. Occasionally she's open to doing favours when nothing else is going on. Today was one of those days." Ironically, this is actually true.

Missy pokes him in the ribs again. He cups her ankle. Runs his hand up to the back of her knee, down to her ankle again. Tickles her foot, and Missy wiggles around, stifling her giggles under the pillow.

"Do we owe the Mistress now, or do you owe the Mistress now?"

"I owe Missy now, Earth should be fine. From her, and the Gisonsha. It's a Time Lord contract. I've been dealing with her since before Earth existed Kate. I've got a handle on things." He reaches higher, finds one of Missy's garter straps, tugs on it gently. Pulls until it snaps back against Missy's thigh. "Like I said, sometimes she's just up for doing favours. She likes a challenge. We did use to be friends, you know."

"A friendship older than our civilisation, then?" Kate asks. "And infinitely more complex."

"That about sums it up," the Doctor replies, confused at her choice of words. "If you wanted to put it that way."

"Well, let me know if you need anything."

"Same to you," the Doctor says.

"Thank you, Doctor. Pass that onto Missy, at least this time. If you see her."

"Yes, will do," says the Doctor. "No idea where she's headed off too though. Bye, Kate."

He hangs up.

Missy props herself up on her elbows, looks around at him. He withdraws his hand, moves it back to her calf. Her hair is a mess, and she yawns. She looks cute. "I forgot how tiring it was to work with that Frankensteinian technology."

"You - thanks again, Missy."

"You would have cried if I didn't," she says, flops back onto the mattress face-first. "You know, we really are dating again."

The Doctor lies next to her. Pokes at her until she rolls onto her side to face him, close on the single bed. "We're not. We never dated in the first place."

Missy throws her hands out in the air. Holds up one of her fingers.

It's the Doctor's turn to shove his head under the pillow. Missy starts talking anyway.

"One. Shagging to the point of annoying your housemates. Two, shagging at all. Three, we just took a nap together - "

"You interfaced with a Gisonsha ship, I'm not just going to leave you by yourself after that."

"Four - "

"We never _dated_ , Missy," the Doctor grumbles, still under the pillow. "I got you pregnant and we moved in together because it was easier than trying to sort it out properly."

For a moment, he regrets his choice of phrasing. Clamps his mouth shut. Relaxes when he feels Missy pressing her hand against his sternum. She starts fiddling with his shirt buttons.

Missy speaks flippantly. "Worked out well. For the first five decades, anyway. Four, all these dinners we keep having together. Five - "

"Can we agree to disagree, Missy? I can't see us dating, I've known you since I was _eight_."

"And now I've been helping you keep your house clean."

"I don't have a house." The Doctor re-emerges from under the pillow, hair mussed. He grabs her wrist, takes her pulse. It's fine. Still. "I think you've got a brain bleed."

"No, no," Missy says. "Earth. You basically live there. Have for a long time, if we're honest."

"I _suppose_. I mean, I walk their earth, I breathe their air," the Doctor says, the words feeling strange in his mouth, and he doesn't like it. Missy gives him an odd look. He presses on. "I suppose. But Gallifrey is back."

"That's where we come from. It's not our home anymore. They kicked me out and you ran away. Granted, they've asked me back a few times. But exile. It stings."

"The TARDIS is my home, Missy, and I - "

"Yeah, you keep believing that, baby," Missy leans over, cups the nape of his neck, kisses him lightly. "I'm going back to sleep." She pauses, their faces an inch apart.

Missy kisses him again, harder, as if she's deciding something. The Doctor returns the kiss, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

With a tiny moan, Missy tugs him down until he's lying on top of her, bracketed between her legs. Bites his lip. Missy is warm and hums beneath him, resting her hands on his back. The Doctor's not one for making out, this time, but it takes a few minutes until he remembers what he was going to say. Missy keeps kissing him as he pulls away, little pecks on his chin and beneath his jaw. The Doctor sits back on his heels, wobbling slightly on the mattress. Missy props herself up on her elbows again and gives him a reproachful look.

"I was just starting to enjoy myself - "

"I'd like to give you a brain scan. Every time you call me baby."

"No. It's fine. It's been hours." Missy waves her hand.

"Missy, come on."

"No medical scans, I'm fine," Missy says. She lies back down. "We can't here, anyway. I took apart half the med-scanners to bolster your shield generator."

"You're right. I walk your earth," the Doctor says absently, stands. "I'm away for a walk." He leans down and kisses Missy between her eyebrows.

Stops. Presses their foreheads together. Leans back, puts his hand over her forehead. Missy swats at him.

"G'way. What are you doing?"

"You're not just running warm. You've got a temperature."

"I just had my head under a pillow. Go walk. What planet are we on?" she asks.

"Triavalta."

"Right, I'll come find you in about an hour. Two, tops. I'm sure you'll get lost somehow."

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor walks north across the pale purple verdts of Triavalta for a few hours, deep in thought. There are no diners that he can see; just the memory of those strange words and green light through trees. A mummy on the Orient Express, sign language deep underwater, the cloisters of the Time Lords, dark and smoky and smelling like electricity. This plays on his mind right up until he rounds the rather small planet and comes up on his TARDIS again. He smiles at the familiar shape of the blue box against the darkening sky.

Stops. Turns.

Takes the Filter-Filter from his pocket. It buzzes in his hand. Slowly, the Doctor turns in a circle. There it is.

The diner sits before him, resplendently tacky with the glowy red neon that looks odd against the greenish sky. He takes a deep breath. It is a TARDIS -a Type 106 or 107, if he's not mistaken. The Doctor takes two shaky steps towards it, clutching the Filter-Filter. Finally.

The door of the diner opens. He sees a woman's silhouette, and his blood runs cold. He doesn't recognise her - not her appearance or how her mind feels. The Doctor steels himself, feels a strange pain in the side of his chest.

He can't do this. He can't.

The figure in the doorway watches him back away. Hating himself, the Doctor backs into his TARDIS. Locks the door. He hurries up to the console and examines the scanner screen.

"Show me what you see, old girl."

The diner sits there, fat and squat and brightly lit. The figure exits the diner, followed closely by another female. The Doctor zooms in on the strange figures, the TARDIS image crystal-clear as he does so. Blue headscarf. The Doctor breathes out, forces himself to relax his jaw. Two young women, both with dark eyes and dark hair. One has a nose piercing. The other is - so familiar. He blinks, and it's gone.

Two strange young women. The Doctor studies the image, grimaces, looks at the expressions on the women's faces, the way they stare at his TARDIS. There's no wonder or confusion there, but no vehemence either. Determination, maybe. He's bad at human faces this time around.

"Who are you?" he whispers.

The girl in the headscarf comes closer to his TARDIS. The Doctor watches her. She has big dark eyes; her headscarf falls back, revealing short dark hair. The other woman grabs her wrist, pulls her back towards the diner and shakes her head. She pulls the girl with the headscarf back towards the diner. Close the door behind them. The diner dematerialises.

The Doctor lets out a breath. Acts fast.

He rewinds the footage, and prints the best image he can find of the two women. Folds it up and tucks it into his pocket. Suddenly the TARDIS blanks the screen, and he looks up, hearing footsteps. The Doctor pushes down the images of the footage in his mind, locks them down in the pit of his psyche, along with his suspicions. Buttons his coat up. His chest still hurts; he rolls his shoulders, tries to ignore it.

Missy shuffles into the room, her hair a mess, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She's eating a sandwich with huge bites.

"On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think the social structure of Gallifrey has changed?"

Silence. Missy chews. The Doctor looks over at her. She picks a bit of lettuce out of her sandwich, nibbles that separately.

"Missy?"

She swallows. "Three at best. If you mean the Gentry. We both know that the change needs to be institutional. And you spent more time with the Outsiders and Gallifreyans anyway. Maybe more than three on their levels. But that doesn't matter with the Gentry still in control. That was a non-answer. I just woke up. Leave me alone." She takes another bite, speaks around her mouthful. "Is this about the diner?"

"What if it's another rogue Time Lord or Lady piloting a faulty TARDIS?"

Missy keeps chewing. "We don't even know if it's a TARDIS. Don't let yourself decide that it's a TARDIS. Create theories to suit facts, don't alter facts to suit theories. Elementary, my dear Doctor."

"I just have a feeling. There'd be plenty of younger ones who'd want off Gallifrey now the war is over and they're back in this dimension," the Doctor ignores Missy. "Susan and I left. Romana left. Ushas left. Did you ever meet the Meddling Monk?"

"The Rani was exiled," Missy says. "And Romana went back in the end, who knows what happened to her. Last I heard she was sentenced to death for treason. Crying shame. I was slightly preoccupied."

"Who sentenced her?"

Missy shakes her head. "Rassilon? Brax? How would I know?"

The Doctor takes a moment, studies his hands on the console. Romana. She's been on his mind as of late. He looks at Missy, who shrugs, finishes her sandwich.

"We're not the only ones who ever wanted to get off that planet," the Doctor says finally.

"We're some of the few who actually _left_ , though. And it seems like we're the only ones to survive. We're the exception that proves the rule. Exceptional exceptions. We should avoid the diner, not seek it out, no matter what it is." Missy brushes crumbs off her hands. He watches her run her tongue over her teeth.

"Weren't you making a tracking program for it?" he asks.

"No, no. I thought about it."

"No, you said you were making one. In Los Angeles."

"If I was drunk, my claims may not have been valid," says Missy. "And I can't track something if I don't know what it is."

There's still a faint pain in his chest. The Doctor makes a quick decision, takes the picture out of his pocket.

"It is a TARDIS. I saw, heard it dematerialising. Saw these women in it," he says, showing it to her.

Missy takes the image. Takes her glasses out of her pocket and puts them on, holds it up to the light.

"No. As far as I can recall," she says. "Well, that one rings a bell, but some faces do that."

"You're sure?" the Doctor asks.

She looks at him, looks back at the image. Squints.

"Sorry, Doctor," Missy says, handing it back. "Never seen either of them before in my life." The Doctor puts it back in his coat. Missy pushes her glasses back on top of her head, rubs her mouth. "Where did you get that image?"

"A week or so ago. Lahni and I were on Okasnas," a planet with a similar enough environment to Triavalta, "And I happened to double check the scanner footage. This was the best picture I could get."

"So I take it your perception rejector isn't working? If you didn't notice?" Missy asks.

"No. No, it's not," the Doctor says. "Clearly. I thought I had it right. Guess not."

Missy takes the picture again. The Doctor frowns as she re-examines it, clicking her tongue.

"Why a diner though?" she asks.

"I guess someone's read Adams," the Doctor says. "Are you planning on sticking around for a while? I'd rather you stay for at least a few more hours."

"I'm touched," says Missy dryly. "I'm also starving. Do you want a sandwich? I'm having another sandwich. Let's have a sandwich."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	9. tapping in five-seven time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, who knows. Who knows anything.

_What was the necessary condition for making the thing conceived this time into you, just you and not someone else? - Erwin Schrödinger._

 

 

 _A visit, two thousand years ago._  

"I think," Theta says, finally. Holds his arms by his sides, straightens up. "Let's leave this place. Let's just go, Kosch. Let's leave Gallifrey."

Koschei stays sprawled on the rug. Reaches up onto the bed, grabs one of the delicately embroidered throwpillows and hugs it.

"I like what I'm hearing. I've heard myself say it often."

"I - "

"But when all is said and done and imagined, we haven't got our TARDIS licenses. You haven't even started piloting lessons," Koschei drawls. "Looks will only get you so far and in your case, only a quarter-length down the road."

Theta pulls a face at his friend. "You think I'm adorable."

"Yes, but I have to. You'll never get your license if you don't study, Theta." Koschei sticks the pillow under his head. Continues staring at the ceiling. "Big dreams need hard work," he says.

"I work hard at the things that matter," Theta says. "That said. I'm meeting Dias because he said he can probably help me scrape a pass on the neurochemistry exam." He leans down, ruffles Koschei's hair. "Aren't you doing some lab experiment soon?"

"Yes, yes," says Koschei. "Why are there tiny holes in your ceiling?"

"I was playing darts," Theta says, as if that explains everything. "Are you staying here tonight, want to blow off some steam?" He gives Koschei a very specific look.

"No. No, no no, I have an interview with Borusa quite early tomorrow and I don't want to be playing musical bedrooms in the morning," Koschei says. "Again, no. Go study, or I'll be graduating two years ahead of you instead of just one."

 

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty-Two_

Missy stays for a week and sits with him most days. Because of this, he makes a show of working on the Filter-Filter. She spends her time making tiny perpetual motion machines with scrap parts and leaves them round the TARDIS, each lighting up a room with gently pulsing pastel colours. One projects a light orange pattern of stars on the ceiling; another shows the process of cell division in grass-green and baby blue.

"I still think you should leave it," she says, working on her third machine of the day.

The Doctor shrugs, keeps polishing a seven-sided bolt of blue-star steel with silk. It gleams under the lights. "You talked about tracking it. This is a happy medium. This is preparation for when they come again."

"Why do you think it's a they?" Missy asks. "It's a couple. You only saw two of them. If that's what you saw and so a lot of this is conjecture, my dear. I suppose there could be three, now I think on it. A talented three. You really have no idea of knowing."

"Type 107s require at least four pilots," the Doctor says. "And I've got the pictures of two of them. Remember?"

The Doctor drops the bolt into position. Stares into the guts of the machine, which is about the size of a paperback novel. Amongst the tangles of wire, two red lights flash on and off; a green light glows steadily up at him.

Missy picks up a wire with a pair of hair-thin tweezers, carefully drops it into place in her latest machine. Guides one end of the wire into a groove a couple of millimetres thick. Nods with satisfaction. Picks up the next wire. Drops it into place. Guides it into a different groove. Solders it into place.

The Doctor looks over at her, wondering if she's forgotten they were speaking. Missy nods, picks up a magnifying glass and looks at something carefully, chewing on her bottom lip. She frowns.

"Ergo, they," the Doctor concludes, going back to his own work. "The two women, plus two others. I suppose - yeah, _maybe_ three. I really don't know."

"Koschei," Missy says suddenly, and the Doctor looks up in shock. "I know you said the Type 40s need six pilots but really," she continues, doing an almost-perfect impression of his first body's mountain-range Gallifreyan accent, keeps working on her tiny machine as she speaks. "Really, it's possible with even just _one_ if you reroute the switches to be multifunctional, just add in a psychic overlay, simple…"

She trails off when she realises the Doctor is staring at her. The sense of familiarity in her words is almost overwhelming, makes him nauseous. He tries to shake it off.

"When did I say that?" he asks. "Exactly?"

Missy shrugs, not looking at him. "Don't know why or when, I just know you did." She shuts the casing, pushes the micro-magnetic screws into place. The machine flickers into life, glows a wonderful soft butter-yellow. "We _have_ known each other a long time. I'm bound to get confused."

"Don't do that," the Doctor says, and Missy points at the machine, comically confused. "Don't start lying to me."

"I genuinely don't remember," Missy protests. Hands him the twelve-millimetre ion-neutral spanner and he realises he needed it all along. "You talked about this TARDIS a lot when you first found it. I remember. You remember. She remembers. She loves you. Should I put this one in the bathroom under the stairs?"

"I remember." The Doctor studies the guts of the perception-rejector, tangled and blinking in their metal box. "I'm taking this to the zero room for some calibrating. Can I trust you in here alone?"

Missy fiddles with the miniaturised nail-gun. "You want a red or pink machine next?"

"Isn't pink just pastel red? What about purple?"

"I can do purple." Missy finds a spare cog. "Right. Do you want to leave the TARDIS after this for a break, or are you really trying to get Hermits United off the ground?"

"You think of a place," the Doctor says, hefting the box under his arm. "See you later."

The Doctor totes the metal box to the zero room and sits cross-legged on the white soft floor, stares at it for another couple of minutes, letting his mind go blank. Enjoys the cool way the room balances the waves of his mind. Then, once he's sure, he brings the photo of the two women out of his jacket. Frowns at the faces. Still. Nothing. He refolds the picture and tucks it back in his coat. He knows he has the right information out there somewhere.

 

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty-Three_

The Doctor finds Missy asleep on one of the couches in his library, her hand trailing on the floor as she drools on the cushions. The Doctor carefully unbuttons her boots, puts those underneath the couch. Finds a blanket and throws it over her, walks out again and finds one of his guitars. Totes that out to the console room and stares at the Charchstar plains, pale green grass rippling in the breeze. It looks like the ocean. He whiles away a few hours playing what feels like the same riff over and over again. Or maybe it's an Oasis song.

"That sounds nice," Missy says, her voice rough from sleep.

The Doctor jumps and turns. She has the blanket draped around her shoulders like a cloak. She draws it shut as he watches her, like a giant bat. If the bat had quilted wings. Her hair is ruffled and there's the paisley imprint of one of the couch cushions on her cheek. The Doctor carefully puts his guitar down as Missy approaches, stands looking out the door. She sniffs.

"They have the longest days here," she says. "What's their rotation speed?"

"Ridiculously slow," the Doctor says. "They don't even have seasons within years. Their seasons are the years."

"The long summer," says Missy, leaning against his back on tiptoe, resting her chin on his shoulder. Blinks at the plains outside. "No, no it's not summer, the grass is all wrong."

"It's spring." The Doctor tilts his head to brush his face against hers, balks when he realises how warm she is. Turns to look at her properly. "Are you okay? What's going on with you?"

"I think I'm getting sick," Missy says, yawns theatrically, makes a 'myum-myum-myum' noise. "Do you want to watch a movie with me?"

"I don't want to catch what you have."

"You've been running around the universe for two thousand years with barely a break," says Missy. "I'm sure you've had this. The immune system resets whenever one is reborn from the Matrix."

"Oh," says the Doctor, but he isn't sure how accurate this is.

"And I spent the first hundred-odd years of this body in the Promised Land. No germs on electronically uploaded minds," she adds. "I'm surprised I've not gotten sick sooner. You can pick the movie."

"Go put on your pyjamas then," the Doctor says.

"You read my mind," Missy mumbles, shuffling off.

"I'm getting a med-scanner out!" the Doctor calls after her.

Missy turns, wrinkles her nose. Holds a palm to her forehead. "I'm about two and a half to three degrees out. Nowhere near a dangerous threshold."

"I worry about you."

"Someone has to, I suppose."

She falls asleep in his lap seven and a half minutes into _The Dish_. The Doctor lies her down on the couch and puts tiny plaits in her hair.

 

A few days pass and Missy finally comes to visit him in bed. The Doctor's still half awake, browsing River's journal without taking any of it in. Something plays on his mind. There's something in it. Missy climbs in bed next to him, lies on her side watching him, toying with the ribbons on the front of her nightshirt. She wiggles her eyebrows.

"I - "

"Don't want to have sex," the Doctor says, tucking River's journal into his bedside drawer. "Sorry. Not even in a kissing mood."

He picks up a different book, one of poetry from the Bellican System. Missy takes that off him, produces her reading glasses from somewhere, and begins to leaf through it. The Doctor finds something by Doctor Seuss and opens that instead; Missy passes him the poetry book back, puts her glasses on the bedside table, yawns and promptly turns the light off. Sitting up in the dark, holding two books, the Doctor gives her a withering look.

"Night," says Missy innocently. "I love you."

"You're the worst," the Doctor says, tossing the books on the floor with two thumps. He lies down, making sure to hog as much of the covers as he can. Closes his eyes.

"Sweet dreams," Missy sings.

"Hm."

Twenty-seven blissfully silent seconds pass. Missy shifts. The Doctor prepares himself.

"Can we cuddle?"

"Fine."

Missy hums happily and rolls over, rests her head on his chest. Presses her ear over his left heart. Thirty seconds pass. Sixty seconds. Two minutes. The Doctor allows himself to relax, brings his arm around her waist and rests his own hand on her middle. Missy rubs her cheek against his shirtfront. The Doctor tenses up again.

"Hand out of my pants, Missy."

Missy withdraws, shoves one arm under the pillow, splays her other hand over his right heart. He senses her opening her mouth and rolls his eyes.

"All appendages accounted for, Captain," she says.

The Doctor puts his hand over her forehead. "You're quite warm. Are you still sick?"

"I had a bath. Nice hot bath, lavender lotion. Bubbles - "

"Fine, Missy. Go to sleep."

Another forty-nine seconds of silence. The Doctor lets his eyes close. He uses his hand on Missy's forehead to cover her eyes instead.

"Actually, can we talk?" Missy asks quietly, shifting so the Doctor withdraws his hand.

"Is it about my oxygen pump?"

"No."

"Mustard machine?"

"No."

"Will we die and-or regenerate in the next eight hours if it's not addressed?"

"No?"

"Then it can wait."

"Fine."

Missy kisses behind his ear and rolls over, taking most of the covers with her with a heavy sigh. The Doctor tuts, yanks some of the blankets back. Missy grumbles, sits up, her bare feet slapping on the floor.

"It can wait," she snaps, and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The Doctor sits up, stares after her in the dark. He lies back down with a heavy sigh. Covers his face with his hands. Distantly, he hears more doors being slammed. Something smashes.

"For fuck's sake," he says, and switches the light on, sits up.

The Doctor throws the covers back and retrieves River's diary, flicks through to the part he vaguely remembers Clara being a part of. He'd meant to look them over earlier, but he'd gotten distracted, or forgotten. Missy had gotten in the way. Lahni had gotten in the way. He'd gotten in his own way. The Doctor turns the pages carefully, running his thumb over River's scrawled handwriting and messy sketches.

Stops. Looks at the page the diary is open on. His hearts skip a beat. It can't be that simple. It's staring him in the face. _She_ was staring him in the face.

He studies a little sketch River had done, of a young woman with big dark eyes and long dark hair, a wry smile and a collared shirt. Underneath, she'd written 'Clara Oswald.' The Doctor doesn't let himself think.

He rolls out of bed and finds his coat draped over the old wooden rocking chair in the corner. He rifles through the pockets and finds his sonic, his psychic paper, three boiled lollies and a butter curler. He puts these to one side and finally finds the image from Triavalta.

He takes that over to the bed, smooths it out on the mattress. Pulls River's diary over. Leans over the bed and snatches Missy's glasses off the table, puts them on. Stares at the image of the two women. An awful realisation dawns.

The woman with the nose stud was Ashildir, or Lady Me, or whatever she was calling herself that week. He hadn't thought of her in decades. And the other woman, somehow. She was just so familiar.

The Doctor strokes his finger down the other woman's face, commits it to his memory anew. He folds the picture up and lifts it to his mouth. The other woman was somehow Clara Oswald. The Doctor breathes out, sits down heavily on the bed and puts the picture back inside River's diary. Holds it against his chest. He blinks hard, once. Rubs his mouth. Thinks for one moment that he's going to be sick.

Clara is alive; Clara has her own TARDIS, somehow. Clara has been following him. Clara. Clara, Clara, _Clara_.

He swallows hard. The Doctor marches into his bathroom, washes his face with ice-cold water, rinses out his mouth. Pats his face dry with the towel and stares himself down in the mirror. His hair's gotten quite long and fluffy. Hands shaking, he makes himself shave. Combs his hair - this doesn't help - and brushes his teeth, though there's still a strange taste in his mouth after he spits and rinses.

Then, tucking River's diary under his pillow, the Doctor climbs back into bed and lies there, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

He rolls out of bed a few hours later, stiff and sore and he wanders through the halls until he's satisfied. Knows Missy has left the TARDIS. He calls her via the scanner, meaning to bring up - something that will get them around to the topic of Clara. Because Missy must know. She knows. She lied. She ran. Why else would she leave?

"This was part of the arrangement," Missy says, blurry and staticky over the scanner screen. "Either of us can just go, no questions asked."

"Yes, but why did you go?" he finds himself asking. "You didn't even say goodbye."

Missy rolls her eyes, twists her lip.

"I just need time," she says. "I'm tired. I'll call you in a few days."

And then she hangs up. The Doctor hits the scanner screen. All he gets is a sore hand.

 

 

*** * ***

_Another visit, two thousand years ago._

"We should just leave," Theta says. "Koschei, we could just go. Let's leave Gallifrey."

Koschei cups his chin in his hands, rests his elbows on his knees. "We can't just leave. What about your family?"

"What about everything else? It's so stifling. Aren't you bored? Don't you find working in the compound so boring? It's so boring."

"It's - I need to do the work, to move up, Thete. And it's not boring, it's dangerous. We nearly had an explosion last week when ah - Ushas, mixed - "

"Ushas? That Ushas?"

"No, the _other_ Ushas we both know who works in biological sciences." Koschei clicks his tongue, stands, dusts off his robes. "Speaking of, I'm meeting her to go over designs for an life-supporting exoskeleton. Top secret."

"How exciting," Theta says, rolling his eyes. He picks up his book again. "Thanks for stopping by, though. I haven't seen you in ages."

Koschei catches Theta's jaw, drops a kiss on top of his head. "Once this project is done, hey?"

"Then we'll leave." Theta catches Koschei's robe, tugs on it. "You still want to go?"

"I do. But stop being ridiculous, Thete. We have lives here, too."

Theta smirks. "There's nothing we have here I can't justify leaving behind." He pulls Koschei's robe until he leans down to Theta's head-height. Continues, "That is, only if you're coming with me."

Koschei kisses Theta again. "Not today. One day. I'll see you later, right?"

"I'll be here."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty-Five_

Out of the blue, Missy practically beats his door down. Despite his vigorous protests, she drags him to Monticello, insisting they need to take lunch with Jefferson. She stops dead the minute they step outside, sniffs the air. It's a pleasant, warm summer's day. The breeze is light, rustling through the flowers and trees. The Doctor bumps into Missy. She doesn't move, looking around at the estate and the grand house. It really is beautiful.

"What year is it?" she says finally.

The Doctor glances around. "1782, I think." He picks up a small pebble, licks it. "Feels like it."

Missy takes the rock off him, balances it in her palm. Frowns. Puts it in her own mouth.

"Wrong year?" he asks.

Missy spits out the pebble. "Yeah, 1782. Not a good time," she says, turns him around and chuffs him back onto her TARDIS. Shuts the doors carefully. "Let's go to uh, L'chaman. I wonder if they've got that giant bubble machine working yet. We can go on one of those aerial tours of the canyon."

"Didn't you break that?"

"Collateral damage, darling."

 

Missy ends up taking him to her favourite bakery on Ohamar. They sit on a park bench overlooking the tangled mangrove swamp, the sun slowly setting behind the trees. Missy chews on the last of her eclair. The Doctor finishes his poppyseed cake.

"What happens in 1782?" he asks.

Missy doesn't look at him. Shakes her head.

"A lot of things happen in 1782," she says finally. "It started on a Tuesday. Good years never start on a Tuesday."

The Doctor makes a mental note to catch up on his reading. Leans over and uses his thumb to wipe a blob of cream off Missy's cheek. "We still haven't gone dancing," he says lamely. "Something on your mind?"

Missy catches his hand, licks the cream off his thumb. "Not tonight."

A group of wading birds stalk out of the trees and begin to forage in the muddy water in front of them. Missy crosses her legs at the ankle, drums her fingers on her stomach. The Doctor takes out his little black notebook, begins to sketch the scene before them. His pencil is a bit blunt. Oh well.

"Are you happy?" he asks, noting the way the water ripples around the birds legs. "Is this working?" He considers offering her an amnesty to tell him that she's been up to something. Knows that won't work. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Missy tips her head from side to side. "Right now I'm content. Things are chugging along. How about you?"

The Doctor takes the perception-rejector out of his pocket, examines it. It's active, but gives no sign of any alien TARDISes.

"It seems to all be working," the Doctor says absently. "Us, and this." He holds up the machine. Puts it back in his coat, doesn't let himself think of Clara. "Apparently. That said, the cake was a bit dry."

Missy does a mock gasp, turns to him. "How _dare_ you."

"I didn't mind Jefferson," the Doctor says slowly. "I just - what he did - "

"To that one slave? Or to his slaves? Or to an entire race?" Missy takes her cigarettes out of her jacket, examines the crumpled packet. Puts it back in her pocket without smoking any. "It's not like you to start on questioning his decisions in such a decontextualised manner. And he's excellent as chess, almost as good as you."

It's his turn to play at being affronted, and it's not difficult. One of the wading birds finds a cluster of frog spawn, and the flock groups around it and begin to eat. The Doctor pulls a face.

"You sound like a human when you talk like that," Missy says, staring over the water. It ripples as the birds keep eating. "Ugh, he owned slaves. _Everyone_ owned slaves, unless they were a slave. Don't act all high and mighty because you disapprove of one group of people of a lower species on some backwater planet. _I've_ owned slaves."

The Doctor glares at her. She grins out over the water, reminiscing. Probably about her time as Prime Minister.

"Anyway," the Doctor says meaningfully.

"You've at least had servants. Slaves have served you," says Missy. "It's unavoidable."

" _Anyway_. I may not know much about Jefferson, willingly," the Doctor says. "At least, not in 1782. Siku Quanshu gets finished though, in China."

Missy tips her head from side to side. "We could go back to 1773 and get those anti-Manchu texts. Plan a little heist."

"Why, Mistress, I didn't know you cared." The Doctor tucks his notebook back into his pocket and stands, offers her his hand.

Missy takes it, draws her hand up his wrist, studies the bones of his fingers. Lifts it to her mouth and kisses the back of his hand. Places it on her waist, leans into him. The Doctor looks down at her; she glances up at him through her eyelashes.  

"Or," she says. " _Or_."

 

*** * ***

 

Later on, dressed again and sitting in her half-empty library, the Doctor finds himself staring at Missy as she reads, clicking her tongue quietly..

"Do you remember what Clara looked like?" he asks casually.

Missy looks up, the lenses of her glasses catching the light from the fire. She takes them off, chews on the end of the arm thoughtfully.

"Face, hair, ten fingers, ten toes," she says. "Intact teeth, no worms. Typical human."

She's lying. "You can't be more specific?" the Doctor says.

Missy licks her lips. "Well, she was white. Right-handed, as we both know. Short, kind of roundish. Dark hair, dark eyes. Talked quite fast. What makes you bring her up?"

The Doctor goes back to his book. "This is uh, about Didia Clara. I've always meant to go back and meet her."

"Fair enough." Missy puts her glasses back on and turns back to her own book, making notes in the margin. "Can I come?"

"If you want. We could go later on."

She bites her pencil. "Really. You know what we should do?"

The Doctor looks at her again. "Regale me, Mistress."

"I feel like we're in a bit of a rut."

"Probably. It could be all the rutting you're insisting we do."

Missy sighs, chuckles. "Yeah." She sees his expression, laughs harder."You know, we're friends, we sleep together, we _sleep_ together, we fight, we fu - then we're friends again. Even within this - agreement, we have, that hasn't changed."

"I'm wondering where you're going with this," the Doctor says slowly. "Is this a serious talk or a - "

I think we should go to Qongsungan," Missy says, and grins at him. "Once I've finished this chapter on subatomic priming, of course. It's hard to read when you're off your face on mushrooms."

 

*** * ***

 

\- asleep with his socks on no - the Doctor wakes up, stomach lurching, eyes darting round the dark room. He wipes his eyes, breathes in deeply. An overly-soft mattress shifts underneath him. He runs his hand down his chest, legs. Still dressed. No belt, no shoes. But socks. He hates sleeping with socks on.

Something shifts in the darkness. His internal clock tells him it's 2AM local time, around 4PM his own, personal time. The Doctor kicks the blankets off, face hot and itchy, hears light rain falling on the roof of. Outside of. Wherever he is. He hears someone moving again, boots on the floor, tapping.

"It's me," says Missy. "I'm in the armchair about four feet away from you, on your right. On your left there's a wall."

The Doctor swallows, feels how dry his throat is.

"Water, on your right, on the table. Bottle."

The Doctor stretches out with one hand, moves it slowly in a half-circle until it bumps into something glass that rocks against the wooden table it's on. He feels around carefully, picks it up and brings it to his lips. Water. Cool. There's a small chip in the rim. He drinks. Puts the bottle back carefully.

"Can you put the lights on, please Missy?" he asks.

"No."

"Why not?" He asks, and tamps down on panic, hears Missy scoff. She chuckles bitterly. "What is it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know what happened first?" her voice comes out of the darkness, reminds him of the time he and Peri were exploring the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, found a cave lined with gorgeous mosaics. The cave was also the home of some rather misplaced tigers.

"Why can't you put the lights on? Why is my face itchy?"

"It's only been about seven hours, your pupils will still be blown."

He hears Missy's chair creak. She gets up, feet light across the carpet. There's a rustle and Missy lifts a curtain. A small sliver of greenish moonlight trickles into the room, with the sound of the rain. He sees the blurred pale shape of Missy's hand. The Doctor's eyes water, lights swimming in front of them, and Missy lets the curtain drop again.

"It's weird hearing rain at night," she says, and he hears her taking her seat again. "One never hears it in space."

The Doctor runs his fingers over the unfamiliar rough blanket, wonders what colour it is, what colour the walls are. Missy sighs heavily.

"We're still on Qonsungan. We were looking for mushrooms, those ones we took way back when I had that beard - "

At that, the Doctor giggles, then claps his hands over his mouth in shock. Missy laughs too, quieter.

"Yes, the ones we were looking for - the good ones, with the little seeds that actually have that chemical in them - you mixed it up with something else, another fungi, and collapsed. Asked the locals for help, and they said you should wake up in a few hours. TARDIS wouldn't let you in, foreign spores and me trying to drag your sorry rambling carcass over the threshold, so I got us a room. I've been keeping vigil by your bedside," says Missy. She adds, sarcastically, "Mopping your fevered brow. My back is killing me."

"Come to bed with me then."

"You have the bed. You're all sweaty, I don't go in for that."

"Uck," says the Doctor, but for some reason feels like giggling again, and so he does.

"I did get the mushrooms though, the right ones, they're in my pocket," says Missy. "I checked with three separate mycologists. The last one made me eat their mushroom risotto."

"You hate - " the Doctor rasps, throat dry, finds the bottle again. "You hate risotto."

"I know, but I'd just gotten you settled up here, so it seemed rude, especially when you were sleep-yelling. Before you protest, yes, you were sleep yelling till I put you further under. I was. Starving."

"I wasn't - " his throat really does hurt. His mouth does too, from laughing. That's kind of funny, in itself. "Sorry."

There's a crackle of lightning outside, so bright it creeps under the curtains and stings at the edges of his vision. Thunder follows, rumbling deep. The rain comes down harder.

"It wasn't terrible risotto. They're nice here, good manners. I'm glad I didn't kill them."

"Yes. Thank you, for not doing that, the bare minimum to be a decent being."

He can imagine her vividly, quirking her eyebrow and curling her lip at this comment. Missy sniffs haughtily. He still has his socks on. The Doctor shifts, finds his feet, pulls his slightly damp socks off his cold feet and kicks them on the floor.

"I was busy stopping you peeling your own face off," Missy says. "Sorry my bedside manner is so lacklustre in comparison."

For some reason that's hilarious, and the Doctor finds himself laughing again. Missy breathes out heavily through her nose. There's a dip on the mattress. The Doctor reaches out, finds his hand touching Missy's button-boots resting on the bed. He squeezes her ankle. The Doctor pats her ankle absently, touches his face with his other hand. Missy's feet hit the floor again and she makes a low noise.

"Don't touch your face," says Missy, and he stops. "Give me your hand."

"No," he says, and wants to giggle again. "No. Not giving it to you, not telling you anything."

"Come on baby, give it here."

The Doctor does laugh at that, snorts. Laughs harder. Holds his hand out into the darkness and Missy's cold fingers close around his wrist, twisting until she finds his pulse. He listens to her clicking her tongue. She holds his fingers for a moment, running her thumb over his knuckles.

"Elevated," he guesses. "My pulse is elevated."

"I'm nodding yes," she says, and he feels her cool hand on his face. Her tone is softer. "And you've still got a bit of a temperature, though it should be wearing off soon. Sleep will help."

"I - "

"That's a hint, Doctor."

The Doctor lies back down, feels the mattress slowly enveloping him. "But TARDIS is okay?"

"No, I set it on fire and danced around it. Naked. Close your eyes." Missy sings the last line quietly, to the tune of some old rock song. She keeps humming. It gets louder, and he feels her kissing him on the temple. He smiles in the dark.

"The rain will have put it out then. My face is itchy."

Missy pulls back the blankets, letting cold air wash around him. The Doctor whines, then laughs at how he sounds.

"Arms by your sides," says Missy.

"Why?"

"I want to see if you can look more like a stick insect. Indulge me."

The Doctor obeys, and Missy tucks the blankets around him tightly so he can barely move.

"Snug," she says, and her chair creaks as she sits down again. "Go to sleep."

"We should have a talk," the Doctor hears himself saying, tries to stop himself. "In the morning."

Missy moves in the darkness, dipping a cloth in a bowl of water. She rings it out, leans over and swipes it over his forehead. Presses her fingers to his temple. Says something else, but the Doctor's already gone.

 

The first thing the Doctor is aware of is the rain drumming outside; the second that he's very warm, and the third is that he's very stiff.

He tries to sit up, but the blankets hold him down. He flails about for a moment, feeling like he's back in his Eleventh body and very glad no one's around to see him. Eventually he manages to extricate his top half, feeling curiously exposed in just his half-buttoned shirt and trousers. He lost his socks and belt at some point.

He looks around the small room, with rough white-washed walls and one hand painted picture of a mushroomhanging on it. There's a thin rag rug on the floor, a chair pulled up next to his bed. Missy's coat is lying across it. At the foot of her chair is a heavy china bowl - mushroom patterned - with water and a small blue flannel in it. The Doctor licks his dry lips, picks up the half-empty bottle on the bedside table, drains it.

Footsteps outside the rough wooden door. The Doctor does up his top button as Missy lets herself in, toting a tray with a pot of tea and two cups, some dry toast with little dishes, one of grey paste and one of slices of yellow cheese.

"They even put mushrooms on bread here," she says with disgust, putting the tray on the bedside table.

Missy moves to the small window next to the bed, throws open the curtains. The suns aren't up on this planet, and through the rain-streaked window they see the green and purple streaks of dawn.

"Let me see your face," Missy says. She leans in close to the Doctor, puts her thumbs on his cheekbones and pulls down so his eyes are stretched open. Missy peers into his eyes for a long few seconds, chewing on her lower lip. She leans back, presses one hand to his forehead.

"Good," she says finally. "Show me your tongue."

He does.

Missy takes his pulse, her fingers warm on his neck. "Yeah. Good."

"Glad to hear it," the Doctor says.

Missy takes one of the pieces of toast, puts some cheese on it, throws herself back into her chair and chews. She's rolled her shirt up to her elbows and her hair is coming loose from her updo. The look suits her. He sometimes forgets how much more personable the Master can look when they've taken off the gloves or foregone that stupid Shakesperian collar.

Missy can hear his thoughts and he can see she's listening from the look on her face, the way she bites the pad of her thumb. Obviously she thinks better of it.

"'Ng on," she says, reaching down and holding the toast in her mouth. She hands him the damp flannel.

The Doctor uses it to wipe his face and hands, passes it back.

"Remember how we were going to drop mushrooms?" Missy asks. "You dropped the wrong mushroom."

The Doctor pulls a face. "Sorry."

"It's half past six. In the morning," Missy says. "Eat your toast, you need food. And you're probably hungry."

He is, and takes a piece of toast, forgoing the mushroom paste and the cheese. They both chew, listening to the rain.

Missy eats two pieces of toast and cheese, curls up in her chair and nurses her tea, watching the window. The Doctor makes his way through one and a half bits, the thought of even cheese making his stomach flip.

"Did you sleep?" he asks finally.

Missy shakes her head. "I dozed off for a bit, but when I woke up you were trying to get loose to scratch your face. And you woke me up at two, didn't know what was going on."

"Thank you, Missy."

"What was I meant to do?" she asks shortly. "I couldn't just leave you in the rain. It was cold."

"Still. Thank you."

"Drink your tea, idiot. I'll get some sleep when you take me back to my TARDIS. I was going to head off by myself, but that just takes forever."

The Doctor retrieves his cup. Missy goes back to staring out the window, a half-smile playing on her lips.

"You're - going, today then?"

Missy shrugs. "We've got the mushrooms, we can use them another time. Though I don't really want to, after the last nine hours."

The Doctor nods. "If that's what you want. It's weird, isn't it?" he adds, awkwardly. "Hearing the rain outside."

"You think you're so smooth. You remember me saying that last night."

"I do, doesn't mean it's not true. It comes from skipping the boring bits of life outside the time vortex. You just avoid the rain, don't realise you miss it."

Missy doesn't move. Stares out the window, stroking the fabric on the front of her skirt with her thumb.

"Are we - do you want to go soon, or am I going to relapse the minute I stand up and start scratching my face off?"

"I doubt that, you seem pretty with it," Missy says. "Do you want to scratch your face off generally?"

"I didn't say, or do anything, awkward, did I?" the Doctor asks finally, and she shakes her head. "I. Yeah. Outside of the face, and the yelling. What was I talking about - what are you doing?"

Missy stands and unclips her brooch, unbuttons her shirt and takes that off.

"My back hurts from sitting in that chair all night. I'm getting in bed," she says, folding it over the back of her chair. "The TARDIS is miles off, I can't be bothered walking through the rain to it." She quickly finishes up in just her underdress. Shakes her hair loose.

The Doctor shifts over when Missy climbs into bed next to him. She lies down, stares at him from across the pillow. The Doctor waits, wondering if he did try the mushroom paste.

"Wake me when it's lunch. Or the rain stops," Missy says, and rolls over so he's staring at her back.

"Will do," he says, staring at the four little freckles that cross her shoulder.

"You won't. You're staring."

"I am. You always have those freckles, on your back, don't you?"

"Do I?"

"Why don't I carry anything over from my previous bodies?"

"You carry a terrible sense of timing," Missy wriggles back over to face him. "And alright hair. Can't pull off beards, usually, though I think this regeneration might be in with a chance. Never stops talking. Hm. How to shut him up." She leans across, kisses him lightly, lips warm. Stares at him. Opens her mouth, closes it. Shakes her head.

"Yeah," the Doctor says finally. "But those are personality traits, not physical ones."

"We're both usually white, and you tend to be male. I like beards, you have knobbly fingers. I haven't always had the freckles. Crispy, couldn't tell. Five through seven, off the top of my head."

"I never met those regenerations," the Doctor says. "You had them in your first body though, and second. It's unusual."

"I don't think it's unusual, Doctor, I think you're just bad at regenerating. Romana's fussy about her nose, that's why it's always small. You're overthinking things. Go to sleep."

The rain continues to fall outside, the sky grey with clouds instead of its usual pale lilac. A gust of wind blows drops against the glass. Missy rolls over, giving him her back again.

"It's like the Corsair," the Doctor says suddenly, and Missy makes a snuffling noise, catches her head as it lolls to one side.

"Not really. They always have that ugly tattoo. So am I not allowed to gag you when you won't stop talking in bed? That seems unfair."

The Doctor slings his arm around Missy's waist and presses his nose to the top of her spine. Missy moves his arm up around her chest and he tightens it around her, feels her relaxing against him. Then, "It's a cool tattoo."

"You're still high. And their tattoo was cool when Rassilon was relevant. What happened to - "

"The Corsair? They're dead. Murdered in a parasite universe."

"Time War not good enough for them, hm? They always had to be different."

The Doctor pokes her in the shoulder. "It's a long story for another time, I think." He kisses the back of her head, breathes in the smell of her hair. "There was a parasite universe. I talked to the TARDIS. I got to say hello to her. You wouldn't have liked that."

The rain starts coming down harder, splattering against the window. The Doctor watches the trees waving in the wind outside.

"You know what you would have liked? I grew beards a lot in my last body," he says. "It just sort of kept happening, very dramatic and all that. You would have laughed, I actually thought of you at one point, when I was shaving. Did a goatee. Handlebar mustache. I didn't know what to do with it, so I got rid of it all."

Outside, the wind whistles. Missy doesn't answer.

 

*** * ***

_An announcement, two thousand years ago._

Koschei leans against the doorframe, looks at him fondly. He keeps talking, watching her. Her attention drifts slightly, and her teeth worry at her bottom lip. Theta keeps going. He's just too excited. Koschei wipes her hands on the front of her robe and keeps chewing her lip.

"We should just leave," Theta says, taking her hands, squeezing them. "It's time. We've always talked about leaving, and this is our chance. We're not tied down. I can access a TARDIS. I've got a key for the museum now, and the codes. We can sneak - "

Koschei shakes her head, curls bouncing lightly. She's so beautiful. Theta darts forward, pecks her on the cheek. Takes her hands.

"Theta, we can't go - "

"You always say that. We'll sneak in, take one of the older models they have on display," Theta says, crossing the room, staring out the window at the mountains. "There's a Type 71, which is probably in the best condition of them all, you like the Type 70s. I'm not fond - "

"Theta, I - "

"Oh, there's this Type 40, Koschei, you should see it. It's the most beautiful machine I've ever seen - I know you said the Type 40s need six pilots but really, it's possible with even just one if you reroute the switches to be multifunctional, just add in a psychic overlay - "

"Theta, we can't go because I'm pregnant."

Theta stares at her for a moment. Then, "It's perfect for travelling. Type 40s, they're apparently really resilient. I know, it's an ancient model. But it's just so warm and inviting and it's been through the wars but you know how some places have such a, such character? Like my parent's - "

Theta stutters to a halt. Turns. Koschei straightens up, brushes her hands down her middle. Twists her fingers together and studies her hands. Looks back up at him.

"Say that again," Theta says, skin prickling.

"I had my physician's visit this morning," Koschei says, a small smile on her face, but it's nervous. "They picked it in minutes. I've been having these, these chest pains, on my left - "

Theta points at his right heart. Koschei nods.

"My left heart. It's the baby communicating with me. Letting me know if it's happy or scared, and in a few months you'll be able to feel it too. It all makes sense - the mood swings, how much I've been sleeping, what I've been eating, my skin going fu - Theta?"

"You can't be pregnant, you're only a hundred and twenty-one."

She squints at him. "You're a hundred and fifteen, what of it? Theta, I'm not kidding."

"I know you're not joking! You're pregnant? You're alright? You're happy?" Theta asks. "You're okay with this?"

She nods. "I think we're going to have to put off running away for a little while. Are - are you happy?"

Theta's mouth hangs open. He nods, once. "You're really happy?"

Koschei nods again. She starts to walk across the room. Theta stays rooted to the spot, staring at her, a grin slowly spreading across his face. Koschei reaches him, takes his hands. Places them on her stomach, rests her fingers over his. Theta studies her expression and then looks down at their hands. Back at her face. She's smiling, her eyes damp.

"You're going to have a baby? We're going to have a baby?" he asks.

"We're going to have a baby," Koschei says.

Theta whoops, grabs her around the middle and spins them around the room. Koschei squeaks, throws her arms around his neck. Theta kisses up and down her throat until she's giggling, kisses her face, her eyelids, her nose, her lips, puts her back onto the ground. Drops to his knees, presses his face into her stomach, still flat underneath her robes. Takes Koschei's hands, kisses her palms.

"What an exhibition," Koschei says, jokingly. Runs her fingers through his fine hair, tugs lightly on the ends of the strands. Holds her hand over her stomach. "It's tiny, right now. There's barely anything there."

"Where is it?" Theta leans back, looks up at her.

Koschei draws a circle just below her sternum, her fingers ruffling the velvet of her robes. "Just here. A tiny little thing. Tiny little baby."

"There's so much to do," says Theta, and he presses his face back into her stomach. "Hello, baby," he says, muffled. "Hello tiny little baby. Have you - have you told your House?"

Koschei shakes her head, rests her hands on his shoulders. Theta wraps his arms around her upper thighs.

"I came to you first," she says. "Of course I came to you first."

"I love you," Theta says."Do I say that enough? I love you. I love you so much."

"We have time," says Koschei. "I can't wait to tell your mother. She's going to be so excited. Actually, I can't wait to see the look on your brother's face."

Theta laughs into her torso. Eventually he stands, takes Koschei's hand, leads her over to the couch by the glass doors that overlook the foothills of Mount Solace. They sit.

"There's so much - you don't want to get married, do you?" Theta asks.

Koschei pulls a face, and he nods in agreement. Lifts her hand to his mouth and traces his lips over each of her knuckles, the bones of her wrist. Flips it over and kisses the webbed blue veins underneath. Koschei cups his face with her hand, her thumb at the corner of his eye.

"We're going to have a baby," Theta says again. "We're having a _baby_. We're going to be _parents_. How far along are you? You know we can probably figure out, what time when we, it was, that - yeah," he says. "I don't even know - what else, I want to know everything. How are you feeling? What exactly did the physician say? Tell me everything. Do you need to tell the army now?"

"One thing first," says Koschei.

She leans over and kisses him gently on the lips. Presses their foreheads together. Feels safety, trust, love, spreading through her from head to toe. Theta laughs, holds the nape of her neck, fans his fingers into her hair. Traces his free hand down her throat, her sternum and rests it on her stomach again. Koschei shifts her head, her nose brushing along Theta's cheek.

"What are you doing?" Theta asks.

"Remembering this," Koschei says, closing her eyes. Waits.

"You didn't do this," Theta says, sounding confused. "This isn't how this goes. You kiss me and say you love me, and then we talk about names, and then argue, and then we - this isn't how it happens."

"No. No, it isn't," says Missy. She leans back, studies his face, the warmth and youth and energy in his eyes. "I just didn't appreciate what we had when I was a part of it. We'll go back on script in a minute."

She remembers the strange tugging in her chest, the way the skin on her hands always felt dry and oversensitive. Rubs her fingers across her palms. She feels her left heart working harder, the tiny ball of energy curling below her diaphragm.

Theta pulls her onto his lap, wraps his arms around her and rests his head on her shoulder. Missy takes his hand, places it on her stomach again and holds her hand over his. Kisses him on the temple.

"You're my best friend, and we're going to have a baby," Theta says quietly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me Kosch, and now this - "

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor wakes up, blinks, rubs his eyes. Remembers where he is. Missy's sitting up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, toes tapping the floor rhythmically. She stares out the window. The Doctor sits up behind her, counts the taps. Five/seven time. It can't be that bad. Compared to the bed, the room is cold.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I just feel a bit sick," she says quietly, covering her mouth.

Missy leans against him, looks out the window, her skin strangely fragile looking in the pale light. The Doctor doesn't want to be suspicious, not today. He brushes her hair to one side, smooths it with his fingers. He dips his head down, kisses her freckles, moves up her neck.

"She had freckles too," Missy says. "On her back. Like mine. Our daughter. Didn't she?"

The Doctor slides his arm around her waist, squeezes. Rests his forehead against her shoulder. "That was a birthmark, not freckles."

"Oh. Oh, I guess I forgot," says Missy. She moves her head, noses into his hair, kisses him almost absently. "Can't believe I forgot."

"That happens. You're alright," the Doctor says.

Missy shifts, dislodging his arm. "The rain's stopped," she says quietly.

"Yeah, clouds have all gone," he says, and Missy nods.

"We should probably head back to the TARDIS," says Missy. "Before it starts again."

"If - " the Doctor says, and Missy stands up. He lies back down. "Okay. If that's what you want."

Missy finds her stockings, quickly rolls them on.

"You right?" he asks, picking her brooch up off the nightstand. He rolls it between his fingers, watching her. Worries he let something slip the night before.

"Fine, fine," says Missy. She grabs his belt from under the chair, tosses it on the bed. "Come on love, get dressed."

"I practically am, you're just a pass-the-parcel with all your layers this time. Hey. Missy."

"I've just got cabin fever," she says. "Come on."

It's strangely domestic, them both quickly and quietly getting dressed. Missy finds his boots under the bed where she'd kicked them the previous night. The Doctor clips her brooch on for her, as she does his cardigan buttons. He straightens out the bed and sits on it, waiting for Missy to button up her boots. A thought strikes him.

"Do you just want to leave because you haven't had a cigarette in ages?"

Missy gives him a look, goes back to doing up her left shoe. "I _am_ the Mistress, Doctor, have you forgotten?"

"The Mistress of all, even nicotine cravings. Give me a hand."

Missy props her right leg up on the bed next to him, her boot undone. The Doctor sighs, twists and starts working the buttons through the loops. "I do like these on you, even if they take forever to put on."

"I'm quitting, I suppose. Look at me. I'm a picture of health."

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty-Six_

They finally go out dancing properly, a Russian ball under Catherine the Great. Missy picks the concept, the Doctor picks the context, mostly because he hasn't seen Catherine in a few hundred years and she still has one of his favourite scarves. Missy wears something long and red with gold woven into her hair and the Doctor digs up a suit. Meets her in the snow in front of the winter palace.

He's not one to notice what people are wearing, but as Missy curtsies at him, exaggeratedly low, he notes that the dress looks probably more like Time Lord robes than she intended. It works, too well.

"You look nice," he says awkwardly, taking her hand. She's wearing some kind of perfume that smells like vanilla and gunpowder

"Same to you," Missy says, leading them towards the almost-blinding lights of the winter palace across the snowy grounds.

"I want to have a talk later," the Doctor says finally, as they stride through the entrance hall. They can hear the loud boisterous music from the ballroom, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He pulls on Missy's hand, makes her face him. They stop. "Not a talk, a discussion. A reappraisal."

Missy grits her teeth. Nods. "Fine, fine," she says, and starts walking again, ignoring a waiter who offers her a tray of incredibly expensive champagne. "We're dancing first, kiddo."

"I'm older than you now."

"Physically, maybe."

The footmen open up the doors to the ballroom, and the music grows almost impossibly loud. It's blinding with thousands of candles hanging from the ceiling and walls, different colours flashing brightly as hundreds of guests all dance, eat, drink and plot.

Catherine is dancing up a storm in the middle of the room when they enter, and the Doctor spins Missy into position as another waltz kicks into gear.

"I actually meant rock and roll," Missy tells him, when she crosses in front of him, hands on hips, and the Doctor finds himself smiling. "This'll do."

They stay out on the floor for the next two waltzes, and another dance that the rich in the room think is done by peasants. It kind of is, but it's a lot more fun in the darkened peasant halls out on the steppes with rough cups of vodka than in the brightly-lit halls of St Petersburg. Arms raised above his head, the Doctor weaves his way down the line opposite to Missy, who bops in time with the music. As they wait at the end of the line for the next couple to move, he watches Missy doing the running man under her skirt.

The song ends. Missy comes over and straightens his cravat. The Doctor smiles down at her and takes her hands again. She squeezes his fingers, almost to the point of pain. Loosens them.

"What's this talk about, then?" she asks, snagging him a glass of champagne and handing it to him.

The Doctor knocks the glass back, feels his pulses pounding as he stares at her. Gives it back to the footman. The Doctor looks up at the darkened grounds outside. Frowns. Missy tenses in his grip. 

Reaches into his pocket, engages the perception-counter machine. Forces himself to look back down at Missy, back up outside. Yes. The diner is still there, red neon against the velvet sky and shadowy hedges.

"What is - " Missy turns, follows his gaze. Makes a small noise. "Is that really there?" she asks.

"It's the diner," the Doctor says, striding across the room, the dancers getting out of his path. He glances back through the windows, knocks some minor viscount out of his way. Missy hurries along behind him, telling him to stay inside.

"It could be the Time Lords, Doctor, now's not the time - "

He finds his way out of the ballroom, shoves through some servant's hall and finds another little door to the gardens. It's freezing cold and his breath comes out in clouds as he runs across the frosty, slippery glass.

"Hey!" he shouts.

Missy stays by the servant's entrance. "Doctor, come back!"

The Doctor finds himself before the diner, all solid and real and red glowing neon before he knows it. He lifts a fist to knock at the door, but someone opens it before he can make contact. He loses his balance, wobbles slightly, fist still raised.

"Who are you?" he asks.

It's a brown-haired woman, short, with large dark eyes. She stares up at him for a moment, eerily familiar in a red dress and black stockings. She frowns at him, her eyebrows furrowed and mouth hard, and then it slowly softens. She smiles. Somehow it's sad. He shakes himself. Knows. Clara. _Clara_.

"Cl - "

"Hello, Doctor," she says, and throws her arms around his waist, knocking the breath out of him. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry."

The Doctor finds himself lifting his arms, hugging her tightly, stroking her hair on the back of her head. She smells so familiar. He stares over Clara's head, into the diner. Except it's not a diner. It's quite clearly a Type 107 TARDIS with -

"Ashildir," the Doctor says, as the woman herself rounds the console. "Sorry, Me? Whatever you're calling yourself these days."

Clara is still hugging him. She loosens her grip, looks up at him. "Where's Missy?" she asks.

"Uh - " the Doctor begins.

"Get inside," she says, pulling him over the threshold. Her hand is tight and sure around his wrist.

"Clara - " he says, revelling in the way the name feels in his mouth.

"In, in in," Clara says, slamming the doors shut.

The Doctor stumbles into the TARDIS, stays by the entrance. It's novel, being the one kidnapped, slightly nerving all the same. The Doctor turns as Ashildir engages the rotor and the TARDIS shifts in time, then slowly, space. "Safe on the moon," she says, breathing out.

The Doctor ignores her, stares at Clara, standing in her red dress. "Stop," he says, unsure. "Stop. It's really you. It's you, isn't it?"

Clara nods, eyes filling with tears. How could he have forgotten.

"It's me, Doctor," she says. "It's Clara."

"Clara?" the Doctor asks. "You're really my Clara? Why are you alive? How are you alive?"

She starts tearing up, properly. Wipes at her face with the heel of her hand. "Yes, it's me. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have interfered, but we noticed Missy was with you and I worried. And it just snowballed from there."

"How long have you been following me?" the Doctor asks.

"A couple of months. We were going to the Moulin Rouge in France and we landed in the 1780s and we saw - you and her, and didn't know what to think. So Ashildir and I tried to trace your timeline. Keep an eye on you."

It all comes spilling out; the random piecemeal ways Clara and Ashildir had traced his TARDIS, and at one point, Missy's - "to some snowy planet, too cold for humans to survive." Clara speaks of trying to reach out to him, Ashildir holding her back, Missy, Missy Missy -

"The last time," Clara says finally. "The last time I saw you, I was a waitress in a museum cafe. I don't know, I just thought - if I actually spoke to you, you would recognise me, you would know me, but you didn't. I don't know why I thought it. You didn't recognise me when I left you in America. I just thought - I don't know what I thought, I was just so worried about you."

The Doctor sorts through the cavalcade of words. "What museum cafe?"

"Oh, in London in about 2008. You spoke to a little girl with a Clanger's shirt on. You were really distracted though, kind of disorientated," Clara says. "Missy told me to leave the table and then you went off to your TARDIS."

"Missy spoke to you?"

"You don't remember? She did, Doctor, she did."

The Doctor looks at his feet. "I can't - I can't remember everyone I meet. Did she know it was you?"

Clara's jaw tightens. "Oh, yeah. She knew it was me. She was - she was mean, Doctor. No worse - "

"Dismissive," Ashildir puts in. "Like she thought she'd won."

"You seemed upset, really," Clara says slowly, and he hates having someone he doesn't truly know standing in front of him being able to read him like a book. "Distressed. That's the word."

The Doctor nods, slowly, thinking back to the small girl - Riley, with her grubby Clanger's t-shirt - and satellites and Missy spilling their secrets to random humans like confetti.

"How could you trust her, Doctor? Why?" Clara asks, shaking her head.

"Do you - " he begins, then changes his mind. Clara frowns at him, her concern clear. "Where's your bathroom?" he asks finally.

Ashildir doesn't seem fazed - she's seen everything, so really, what _could_ \- and points. The Doctor walks off into the white-facing corridors, studying the floor. It's some kind of fake-wood panelling that grips his shoes well. He wonders what planet it's from. Finds the bathroom.

The Doctor locks the door and promptly throws up. Kneels on the tiles and rests his head on the cold toilet seat, feels like the word stupid has been branded across his eyelids. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, reaches up and flushes the toilet. Stands, and the automatic heating for the room engages with a rattle.

Everything he's wearing smells like Missy; both her perfume and her actual smell underneath, copper and engine oil and the strange grassy scent most Gallifreyans seem to have.

Usually he can't stand losing layers off his own TARDIS - so much of himself is wrapped up in the way he dresses - but he can smell her all over him and hates it, hates it. With shaking hands, the Doctor pulls off his shoes, strips off his coat and waistcoat and shirt and pants. Kicks his clothes into the corner, turns the shower on and waits, holding his fingers under the spray, for the water to warm up. There's bruises on his biceps in the shape of her fingertips and he can't even remember how he got them. Probably the last time she insisted they had sex.

The Doctor covers himself in soap twice. Washes his hair two times, pulling on the strands as he does.

He knew he couldn't trust her. He just thought she wouldn't go this far.

Now he knows how wrong he can be.

There's a bang on the bathroom door.

"I found some clothes for you!" Clara shouts. "I'm leaving them outside."

The Doctor leans his head against the shower screen and thinks his Tenth body would have revelled in this amount of angst, especially considering the Mistress is the guest star this time. As such, he finds himself remembering how he'd felt the first few weeks living with Lix after leaving Koschei.

Dips his head back under the water, washes his hair a third time. Doesn't let himself think about anything.

 

Clara sets aside a room for him, which he enters. There's a little bookshelf next to the door, stuffed with some of his favourite novels. The Doctor throws one of the books in there against the wall, like a child throwing a tantrum. He combs his wet hair with his shaking fingers. Breathes out. Laces up his boots.

Goes and finds Clara and hugs her again.

"You're not usually a hugger," she says.

"It's not every day you meet your long-lost best friend," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, for whatever I've put you through."

Clara wraps her arms around his waist, presses her forehead against his shoulder. She's warm. He can feel her strong arms and small hands against his back. The Doctor finds himself stroking her hair. She moves her hand up and down his spine.

"You didn't know," she says softly. "How could you have known?"

"I've known her for two thousand years," the Doctor says, horrifically aware of how he's wallowing in self-pity. "This never changes. I'm just sorry you got caught in the crossfire."


	10. the deep and lovely dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheel turns and nothing changes. Until now.

 

 

> _I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary. - Margaret Atwood._

After he meets Clara, he avoids Missy for a good six weeks. Sits in his TARDIS and checks every micrometer of work she did on the machine, whispering apologies. He visits the Library and leafs through River's diary over and over again. But for the first week he stays on the diner and makes awkward conversation with Clara. Part of him wondered if they would be able to slip back into a pattern of what he assumed was friendly banter. It doesn't work that way.

She finds him in the biodomes of their Type 107 TARDIS, a recreation of the ice-world of Illarn, smoking his way through a packet of cigarettes Missy left in his coat.

"She really did a number on you," Clara says, rubbing his back with the strange familiarity that's become common over the last few days.

He drops the cigarette on the cobblestones, stamps it out. Clara tuts. The Doctor collects the mug he's been using as an ashtray, picks up the remnants of the cigarette and drops it in.

"I didn't know you smoked," Clara says.

"I usually don't," says the Doctor, leaning against the railing. He sighs heavily, coughs. "Missy got me back into it. I try and guard against it but she just. Brings out the worst in me, bit by tiny bit."

Clara lets out a breath, glances around. "I wonder about these biodomes," she says. "I never asked you, last time. Why do the TARDISes have them?"

"Two reasons," the Doctor says. "One is, why not. The second is - well, the one thing a TARDIS can't really have is - an outside. All manner of rooms, and places and objects, weapons and abilities. But there's no true outside to them, and if travellers found themselves trapped in a TARDIS for years, they may need that sense of an exterior. Of outside, of non-cycled air, of the wind and the sun. We're still inside, but it doesn't feel like it at all. It takes quite a bit of power, but as most biodomes are designed as part of the life-support systems, you could easily survive just in here, for decades."

Clara nods.

"I had a garden, when I was with River on Darillium. Herbs, and some apple trees. Nice little garden," the Doctor looks at his hands. "Not anymore."

"Is that why you took up with Missy? Were you lonely after River left?"

The Doctor shakes his head.

"I was so lonely. And I knew Missy had met you, and - "

"Doctor," says Clara, leaning on the railing beside him. "Is that why you were travelling with her? To learn about me?"

The Doctor studies the icicles hanging off the balcony. Thinks about lying. "No. I wanted to learn about you, yes. But Missy and I have travelled together before. Lived together before. We kicked the idea around occasionally, or I begged her, or she begged me. This time," the Doctor jabs his fingers on the railing. "Neither of us were mad or suicidal or spiteful and we both wanted it to work. It did work, for a while, Clara. It was pretty good. And I started to hope she'd get better, this time. This time she'd be better."

"Was she living on the TARDIS?" Clara asks.

The Doctor shakes his head.

Clara stares at him, her eyes so large and dark. How could he have forgotten. He wants to memorise every detail. He wants to see her smile. He needs to make her smile.

"When did you live together?" she asks, her voice gentle.

"On Gallifrey," the Doctor purses his lips, can't look at her. "We were together for about seventy years. Lived together for about fifty of those."

"Seventy?"

"Starting in my early hundreds."

"I don't know if that's a long time, or a short time, for a Time Lord."

The Doctor runs his hands through his hair. "It was a long time. It was a good time," he laughs, once, softly. "It was so long ago."

"The person she was back then, Doctor. That's not the person she is now," Clara says gently.

"Neither am I," the Doctor replies. "I left her, if you were wondering."

"What?"

"I left her. After our - my family introduced me to a woman. My brother, he introduced us."

"You had an affair?" Clara asks.

The Doctor shakes his head. "Gallifreyan relationships aren't like human ones. Missy and I weren't married in either case. But it was what you'd think of as an open relationship, I suppose."

Clara gets a very strange expression on her face. "I can't imagine _you_ \- I can't imagine the Time Lords - no, I can't imagine you. But they all seem so conservative. And I can't imagine you - "

"One planet's conservative is another planet's liberal," the Doctor says. "Have you been to Biscwhorl? It's a planet with a country shaped like a turtle where their striptease involves putting on clothes. It's not something the Time Lords talk about. It's a long story. I'll need a chalkboard. Woman from work. I needed the company, and she was fun. Fun and funny. It started off as fun, and then it grew out of that. She was so wonderful. She was like the suns," the Doctor studies his hands. "No, she was better. She was solid and down to earth and caring. And one day Koschei told me to leave, and be happy - "

"Sorry, who's Koschei?"

"Missy, before she was the Mistress, the Master. Before she was exiled from Gallifrey."

"Why did you and…Koschei stop being happy?"

The Doctor shakes his head.

"Doctor," says Clara, and touches his shoulder again. "Doctor. Missy told me her brooch, that pink one she wears, you gave it to her." She waits for him to nod. "You gave it to her when her daughter did something, or something happened to her. What happened?"

The Doctor covers his mouth with his hand. Shakes his head again.

"Clara, I - " the Doctor swallows. "I can't talk about this."

"Why do you still trust Missy at all?"

"I don't trust her _implicitly_. I trust her to an extent. I figured there were certain lines she wouldn't cross."

Why do you think you can help her? What happened on Gallifrey?" Clara presses, still holding his shoulder.

"No, Clara."

"Tell me."

The Doctor turns away, tries to stop his hands shaking. "I haven't told this to anyone in two thousand years."

"Tell me now," says Clara. "Deep breath. Just tell me. It's me. Take your time."

The Doctor closes his eyes. Clara puts her hands over his. She has warm, soft fingers. She reaches up, cups his face and he feels himself leaning into her touch.

He hears himself start speaking.

"We had a daughter together. She drowned. She died. She was eight and she fell into the lake at the Academy and no one found her until it was too late, but they did try, they tried, I found out later. I thought it was a joke. We had to bury our daughter and a little part of us died. And we were happy again, years later, but it was different, it was quieter." He clenches his fists, hears his voice continue. Focuses on something else.

"And I met my future wife, and took up with her, and came home one day years later and Koschei helped me pack up my stuff and I left her. Eventually I got married to my new wife and we had three kids. You know about them, though. I guess. You told me, that you know."

He hears his pulses in his ears. Turns back to Clara, who says something very brave.

"What was her name?"

He mouths it, sees Clara's expression. "I can't say it out loud, off Gallifrey to you. Or write it down. You wouldn't be able to read it anyway."

"Did you love her?"

"My daughter? Of course I loved her Clara, I loved her more than anything."

Clara still holds his hands between her own. She squeezes his fingers.

"It's too cold in here," she says. "Come on."

He follows Clara through the plush halls of the TARDIS until they find a small sitting room with soft blue-patterned armchairs. They both take a seat. Clara folds her hands in her lap. The carpet is soft under his boots. The soles practically sink into it. He reaches down and strokes it with his cold fingertips. Far too soft. He wants to rub his face on it.

"I didn't doubt that, Doctor. I meant Missy. Did you love Missy? Do - do you love Missy?"

The Doctor shrugs, gives the same answer he gave Lahni. "I don't know."

Clara pauses. Tucks her hair behind her ear. "I can't imagine Missy as a mother."

"Missy is not a mother. Koschei was," the Doctor says. "She was a wonderful mother."

"How can you not know if you love her?"

Studying the carpet, counting the strands, the Doctor shrugs again. "I'm attached to her. It's a habit. A really, bad habit."

"Missy said your friendship was more complex than human civilisation," Clara says quietly. "Do better."

The Doctor looks over at her, raises his eyebrows. "What a drama queen," he says finally, and Clara giggles. He glances over, and she ducks her head, hiding her face, her expression. "She's my friend. It is complicated. We've known each other a long time. She's one of my own people - "

"You've said that to me before. it didn't cut the mustard then, and it's not going to to do now," says Clara. "Try again."

"Time Lords live a long time. Our relationships span hundreds of years. Most of us are many things to each other over time. Missy was my friend, my colleague, my boyfriend, my girlfriend, the mother of my child, my friend, my enemy, my ex - "

"The ex from hell," Clara adds.

"There was a time. A year, where the Master was the only other Time Lord in existence," says the Doctor. "So. It's complicated. But it's not that complicated. We've known each other since we were eight, and we're very old now, and that's how it is. I've known Missy longer than I've known the TARDIS."

"I saw you kissing, sometimes. That seems to happen a lot, though you weren't a fan of it when I was around."

"It wouldn't surprise me if some of that was when Missy knew you were there," the Doctor says.

"Were you sleeping with her?"

The Doctor grits his teeth. "Occasionally." And then, because he owes Clara that much and she shouldn't have to ask. "Both kinds of sleeping."

Clara pulls a face. "Does she love you?"

"I believe," the Doctor says slowly. "I think, that she thinks she does."

"You don't know?"

"Well, no."

"Why were you spending time with her, if you don't know? Did you think you could change her?"

"Not this time," says the Doctor. "Yet I'm still surprised."

  
*** * ***

He doesn't like Ashildir. She's billions of years old by this point, he must assume, and he can feel the age radiating off her in the same way aeons echo out from glaciers and boulders and canyons and galaxies.

Like Jack, Ashildir feels wrong. Humans, or near-enough beings to humans, shouldn't feel that way. The Doctor sits in the console room of the Type 107 TARDIS, watching the time rotor go up and down, like a heart pumping blood. He enjoys the clean white lines of this TARDIS, but still misses his own.

"What will happen if the Time Lords catch us?" Ashildir asks, entering.

"Good question," says the Doctor, rubbing his face. "I ask myself the same occasionally."

"Doctor," says Ashildir. "To Clara and I. Your fate will be different to ours."

"They'll set the timeline to rights," the Doctor says. "Well, they already have - they'll have propped it up so perfectly no one but themselves and the Eternals will have noticed. But you two will just annoy them. You're thorns in their side." He grits his teeth, looks over at Ashildir. "You're a perfectly matched pair of pests."

"Yes, but what if they catch us?"

"They'll send Clara to her death and probably erase you from the timeline, as much as they can," the Doctor says.

"And - "

"Then they'll kill you," the Doctor says.

"I don't die," says Ashildir.

The Doctor looks over at her. "They'll find a way."

It's rather maudlin, but it's true.

"They have to find us first," Ashildir adds, and smirks, somehow still a teenager despite time rolling off her like waves. "Haven't so far."

"I trust you know how to use a separation matrix," the Doctor says. "By now. That will be important in staying off the Time Lord's radar."

"What's a separation matrix?" Ashildir asks.

"I'll look into it in a bit," the Doctor says. "Do you have the manual for this machine?"

"Yes. Of course I do, you should never throw manuals out."

Ashildir sinks into the couch beside him, crosses her legs neatly at the ankle. The Doctor keeps watching the rotor.

"It's a good machine," he murmurs. "A quiet one. Quite young. Could just be shy."

"I wish I could do that. Is it possible to learn to sense how a TARDIS feels?"

"I'm sure there's a way," says the Doctor. "My people, we're born able to feel it, but it has to be tuned and taught," he says, ignoring the flicker of annoyance that crosses Ashildir's face. "The more time you spend with a TARDIS, the better connected you become. Quality time." He waits. "Out with it, Ashildir."

"You should kill her."

"I've killed the Mistress before. Well, left them to die," says the Doctor. "Killing them, in my experience, just means they come back angry. Like the Hulk, in leather gloves."

Ashildir snorts. "Clara told me, what you told her," she says eventually, quieter. "I'm sorry that happened to you. I have some of my diaries on a holodisc and when Clara - told me, I went back and looked at the entry where I lost my own children." Ashildir looks at her hands. "It was painful. I can't imagine what it's like being able to remember such a thing properly."

They both watch the rotor.

"I do wonder," says the Doctor.

"As do I," says Ashildir.

"I wonder, I wonder," the Doctor says. "I used to, anyway. Centuries ago. If our daughter had survived and gone and grown up and become a proper Time Lady, the way we always assumed she would. Would I have stayed on Gallifrey, would Missy have stayed on Gallifrey. Would we have had more children. Would we have stayed together. They're not questions anymore."

"Would you?"

The Doctor looks at her, opens his mouth. Closes it. Finds himself wanting to smoke.

"I wish we could have had that life. I feel like that chance we had to be regular Time Lords got taken away. We were never - normal. But at the end I feel like we were never given that chance. Children don't die on Gallifrey very often. Usually - back then, not during the war obviously - it was so rare. They could save them if they got sick, or if they were hurt close enough to home. Ah," the Doctor covers his face for a second. "I feel like we didn't get a chance to prove we could be normal parents together."

"Didn't you have more children?"

"Yes. Yes, I did," the Doctor looks around the console room. "With someone else. They're all dead. As far as I know. My youngest daughter's daughter might still be alive out there." He slumps in his seat. "I had other kids. That was my point. Once they came along, I had to stop imagining what the world would be like if my first daughter had survived, because then I wouldn't have had my second family and I loved them all too much. My wife helped me stop living in that past."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Ashildir begins, and it's then the doors get blown in and across the room.

Ashildir and the Doctor throw themselves down one of the corridors and out of sight as armoured humanoid beings march in, guns held ready. Regardless, there's a flash and the Doctor recognises the tingling in his muscles as the effects of a Gallifreyan stun-field, an electo-magnetic field that holds any non-armoured organic beings into near-frozen states. Two make their way to the console and with quick, sure movements, they shut the TARDIS down and lock it into position. Painfully slowly, Ashildir looks at the Doctor. The Doctor nods his head slowly, fighting against the grenade's effect, then remembers. The same thought must come to Ashildir.

Clara.

A flicker of worry crosses Ashildir's face. She forces her mouth open, then -

"Two humanoids, close enough. And one being reading as Gallifreyan, Sir, just as the tipoff said," one of the armoured Time Lords says, examining a scanner. "Chances are, it's the Portrait Girl and the Doctor, respectively."

Another Time Lord speaks, this one with a familiar accent. "I'll take care of the Doctor. You, Telennun and Nibleen deal with the two others. Jambrax, Liath. Secure the perimeter."

"The perimeter is secure, Sir," says one of the Time Ladies.

"Jambrax, I said secure it. We're in a period of time where Daleks _do_ exist. Act like it," snaps her commander, and the Doctor tries think, think think of a way out of this.

Three of the Time Lords march down the corridor to where he and Ashildir are sequestered. One Time Lord takes Ashildir's arm and injects her with something; she goes limp and is dragged away while the other two Time Lords continue on into the depths of the TARDIS, walking so casually they could have been strolling through a park. Frozen, alone, the Doctor waits. Listens to the TARDIS doors shutting; one pair of boots moving across the console room, up the stairs. Down the corridor. He turns his head, sees a large, armoured Time Lord moving down to him.

"Hello, Doctor," he says, kneeling next to him. Grabs the back of his neck with a heavy, gloved hands. The Doctor can see nothing of his face behind his helmet, red with a swirling imprint of Gallifreyan denoting something about war and fear and Time Lord superiority. Truly. They haven't changed.

The Time Lord pulls a small oblong silver piece of technology from his robes. Presses his forehead to the Doctor's temple. Holds the oblong up.

"This won't take long, and it's a damn side better than an execution," he says, pushing it into the Doctor's frozen hand. "You'll wake up and this won't have happened. Your brain will fill in the blanks. Don't pick at them this time."

The Doctor tries to speak, a name on the back of his tongue.

"Sh," says the Time Lord. "Gallifrey tends to run smoother for me when you're not there. This isn't sentiment."

There's a click and the Doctor recognises the weight of a teleporter on his wrist. Seconds to go. The stun effects begin to fade - the Doctor finds his voice.

"I didn't get to see her sm - "

"Perhaps a tiny bit of sentiment," the Time Lord continues. "Hope not to see you soon. Now, listen to me, and listen well." he says. "The more you fly, right now, regardless of the TARDIS you're in, the easier it is for us to find you. Sort that. And second, don't forget this - " and there's a blue flash and the Doctor -

 

\- doesn't remember anything.

 

 

 

*** * ***

 

 

No, he does remember. He sits in his TARDIS and remembers it all. Even writes it down. Remembers it as clear as day.

 

Clara came to Russia, to the dance, to say goodbye to him. She was in the diner, watching him from afar, as she missed him terribly, and was worried about how Missy was there, but there is no concern now. Clara will miss him terribly; she is going to finally fulfil her timeline, she was exploring the universe with the Portrait Girl and they had a most wonderful time. He sees Clara off. He must see her off. He tells her, "stay with me," and kisses her hand, and still she goes, she goes out to face the raven, as she was always meant to.

 

She had a beautiful smile.

 

That was how it was meant to go. That must have been how it was meant to go. The Doctor shakes his head, like there's water in his ear. Yes, that's how it must have gone. That's how he remembers it. He'll miss her terribly. Clara was braver than he could ever be.

 

 

 

*** * ***

 

 

After he meets Clara, the Doctor avoids Missy for a good six weeks. Sits in his TARDIS and checks every micrometer of work she did on the machine, whispering apologies. He visits the Library and leafs through River's diary over and over again. He plays guitar, reads, writes, builds until his fingers bleed. Even after all that, he needs familiarity. He needs clarity. He needs an easy, simple situation. More than anything, he wants black and white. And so, the Doctor lands outside a townhouse in Notting Hill in late 2007, a key around his neck. Unnoticed by the security detail outside, he marches up to the front door and thumps the brass knocker four times. Two black cabs putter down the street behind him.

Lucy Saxon opens the door, a vacant smile on her beautiful face. A faint line appears between her eyebrows as she frowns. She looks like a porcelain doll dressed as a politician's wife, and the Doctor pities her. Tries to give her a genuine smile; when that fails he gives her a genuine expression.

"Hello, Lucy," the Doctor says. "It's good to see you."

"Now this is an unexpected pleasure," says the Master, stepping out from behind his wife. "Lucy, this is a friend of mine from school. Be a dear and leave us alone."

Lucy turns, her hair waving down her back, and drifts off back into the depths of the house. The Master leans on the wall, purses his lips and studies the Doctor. After a beat, the Master steps to one side, waves the Doctor into the plush, cream corridor. He's in a shirt and suit pants, his tie loosened. Silently the Doctor follows the Master up the thickly-carpeted stairs and down another hallway. The Master gestures the Doctor into his study - cream walls, dark green carpet and modern-styled furniture.

"Seat," the Master says, pointing. He closes the door, crosses the room, pours them both a brandy. "May I ask what prompted you to break what feels like forty-five laws of time and six implicated by-laws and interrupt my work?"

The Doctor doesn't sit. Stands at the Master's desk, goes through his papers absently. Doesn't register what he's reading - something about Archangel. He sighs heavily; the human race is going to have a big year.

The Master approaches him, puts a glass of brandy in his hand, puts his own glass on the desk. Absently the Doctor notes the way the late-morning sunlight shines through the dark liquor, the colour it makes on the paper beneath. It's pretty.

"Let me guess. It's too early to drink?" the Master asks him.

The Doctor knocks his drink back, puts his empty glass next to the Master's full one. Grips the Master's shoulder, leans down and kisses him hard, biting at his mouth. He enjoys the familiar scratch of stubble, the more angular planes of the Master's male body. Not that he doesn't appreciate Missy. He's just used to this.

The Master gets a good handful of the Doctor's hair, yanks on it as they kiss. He uses his grip to pull the Doctor's head back, takes a deep breath.

"Why?" the Master asks.

"You won't remember this," the Doctor says. "Timeline convergence."

The Master raises his eyebrows. "You're Scottish now? Am I Scottish?"

"You - you don't want to know."

"I don't?" The Master pulls a face. He's probably remembering his tenure as a burnt-out husk. "Well."

The Doctor leans in and kisses him again, softer. The Master doesn't like that, grips his lapels and bites his lower lip. Shoves the Doctor up against the desk, pulls his head down and twists his fingers in his hair again. He kisses like Missy, close enough. The nearest comparison the Doctor's ever been able to make is it's like kissing siblings; similar smell, similar taste, yet somehow they feel the same, shaped differently. He can't remember who he told that to, to Grace, to Rose, to a faceless girl in a room of mirrors - Clara?

He tastes blood.

"Who the hell is Clara?" the Master snaps, stepping back. "God, I thought her name was Martha. They all blur together, your Earth girls."

Then again, Missy has her good points too. The Doctor touches his lip, brings his hand away. There's a drop of blood on his index finger. The Master grabs his hand, sucks the blood off. Smirks at him.

"I wish I knew," the Doctor mumbles, reaching down and unbuckling the Master's belt, feeling like he's watching himself do this. "Come on. Do you have a bedroom around here, or will your wife mind?"

"She knows to make herself scarce," says the Master. He sinks his teeth into the Doctor's neck, laves his tongue over the red marks left on the skin. "This way."

 

The Master and Lucy's bedroom is exquisite, with rich Roccoco furniture and gold and white decking the walls. The Doctor notices this absently as the Master fucks him into the mattress. His hand curls into the soft duvet and he presses his face into the pillows, hears them both moaning, the Master swearing above him - something about owning and ruling and running and an eternal new Time Lord Empire. The Doctor comes when the Master does. The smaller man leans down and presses his face between his shoulder-blades.

After a few minutes, the Master gets off him, sits up against the headboard, his legs splayed. Catches his breath. Runs a hand down his face, wiping away the sweat. The Doctor rolls onto his side, combs his fingers through his hair. Breathes out. Wonders how he's feeling. The duvet is embroidered with golden twines of ivy and some other flower he doesn't recognise, the seams lined with thin strips of gold braid. Parts of it are real gold, threads spun out impossibly thin and twirled carefully in with the fabric. The Master is talking. The Doctor doesn't want to listen. He wants to sleep.

"At least I'll be in a good mood when I meet the Australian Foreign Affairs Minister later," the Master says. "What a boring man. Even for a human." He swallows. Looks over at the Doctor. Smiles smugly. This one is good at doing that, far too good. "You know, your current body is probably feeling incredibly jealous right now. Probably doing something sad with his eyes and moping about in the rain."

"I don't even know you're here, right now," the Doctor says. "You blindside me this time."

The Master raises his eyebrows. "You're really not going to tell me why I've been graced with the honour of your presence, are you."

The Doctor rolls off the bed, stands up. Gathers his clothes into a ball. The Master leers at him. The Doctor pulls a face.

"You can use the shower if you want," the Master adds, gesturing. "It's one of those rain shower deals. Quite ingenious, really."

The Doctor shakes out his pants, puts those on. Turns his trousers the right way out and puts those on as well.

"You're not even going to ask me to stop, though I obviously somehow fail," says the Master. "I'm pleasantly surprised on not receiving a lecture."

"You always fail."

"Or. This could be a double bluff."

"You fail. Spectacularly," the Doctor says. "Well, at least at your grander plan." He starts buttoning up his shirt. "I just want you for your body today."

"Everyone always does."

The Doctor grabs his jacket. Half-kneels on the mattress and leans over to kiss the Master, who jerks his head out of the way with a surprised frown.

"Hey, now. That's different," the Master says.

"Get used to it," the Doctor replies. Kisses him on the cheek. The Master keeps his head turned away. "You've got a good few decades, I suppose."

"I'm holding you to that, Doctor." The Master rubs his hands through his hair, rests them on top of his head. "Do take care of yourself. You look rather moorish. And desiccated."

It's as close as he'll ever get to comfort from this regeneration. The Doctor collects his boots on the way out, sits at the top of the stairs to put them on. Then, head held high, he marches past Lucy and back to his TARDIS.

He showers, finds new clothes. And then, deciding to do something genuinely good for himself, goes and meets Jane Austen. She shoos her family out of the parlour, sits opposite him. Stares. Stops staring. Perhaps Jane was a mistake. She's far too quick, to observe, to analyse. To find the best way to discuss it. This time, she plows through.

"You look tired," Jane says, pouring the tea. "You don't look well, my friend. How did you get that cut on your face?"

The Doctor smiles across the table at her. "I'm fine. Matters of the hearts. I don't want to worry you." Then, "Walked into a door."

Jane cups her chin in her hand and chews her lip. "If you say so," she says finally.

"What are you writing right now?" the Doctor asks. "I like to hear about what you're writing."

"It seems no one else does. I've decided," Jane says. "I've decided to write a story with the most insufferably vain protagonist, whom no one shall like, apart from myself, at least at the beginning. She shall develop into a tolerable member of society as the novel progresses."

"Intriguing," the Doctor says, watching Jane carefully cut up an apple. "Tell me more. Does your protagonist have a name?"

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor travels by himself. It's good, more or less. He drops in on Lahni; meets the boy who lives next door to her and recognises him as Lahni's future husband, Wula.

"Are you trying to find yourself?" Lahni jokes, when he tells her he's kicked Missy out and is alone again. "I can come with you, but something's going on, with - well, you know. I want to see how it goes."

Wula comes into the room, takes two slices of bread out of the breadbin and starts making a sandwich for himself.

"Can I have one too, buddy?" Lahni asks, smiling over at him. Wula nods. "Doctor, do you want anything?"

"Do you know how to make those blue milkshakes that taste like coffee?" the Doctor says.

"I can make a coffee-coloured milkshake that tastes like coffee," says Wula slowly. "Will that do?"

"That would be…suitable," says the Doctor, catching Lahni's eye and winking. "He'll do."

Lahni pulls a face at him. "You're being ridiculous," she says.

She and Wula will be getting married in a year and a half.

The Doctor visits Winston Churchill, needing his bluster and strong views and his alcohol. He goes and takes a look at the Grand Canyon, which is quite breathtaking as the glaciers slowly carve it out of the earth. He leans on his TARDIS and drinks a cup of tea, steaming in the cold. The Doctor plays guitar to a newly-born star and watches it pulse green and pink across the black of space.

Then, he goes back to one of the planets destroyed by Missy's Corporation. The people left there have managed to eke life out of the cities again, and live in communes on barter economies. He wanders about for a few days, trading for parts and interesting artefacts and bits of food. Finds himself smoking with a baker at 4AM outside her shop, the morning freezing, but the shop stifling with the heat of the oven.

"You know who I should get around to meeting?" the Doctor says, and the baker looks him.

"Who?"

"Lauren Bacall," the Doctor says thoughtfully. "I've never met her."

"I have no idea who that is," says the baker. She sighs.

The Doctor rummages in a pocket, brings out a picture. Shows her. The baker sighs again, with a very different cadence.

"Very nice," she says. "Whoever she is. Don't tell my wife I said that."

The Doctor flicks ash off the end of his cigarette. "Do you love your wife?" he asks.

"Very much. Three and a half kids."

"Where's the other half?"

"Lost his legs when the Corporation fell. The food riots, you know," she says slowly, raising her cigarette to her mouth again. "He's not our biological son, he just. Needed someone. And we were there."

"That was good of you."

"It was the thing to do. It's not about being good."

The Doctor nods. Reaches into his pocket again, finds a fine silver chain. Silver's worth a lot on this planet, it seems. Pretty things still fetch high prices - small glimmers of hope amongst the ruins. He finds a pair of gloves, a knitted hat, a lovely hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice. A jar of salt. These he hands over to the bewildered baker. The Doctor drops his cigarette on the ground, grinds it out.

"Best of luck to you and your family," he says quietly, and heads off into the darkness.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty - Seven_  

 

Something has changed when he approaches his TARDIS. The Doctor pushes on the door to find it's already unlocked, and steps inside, his gaze immediately going up to the second level of the console room.

Missy is sitting in his armchair, tapping her nails on the arms. She's still in her ballgown, her hair loose and tangled, a frown on her face. She stands as she enters, hands balled into fists at her sides. On the floor, stamped into bits by the console, is her fan from the ball. It's been mere hours for her since she saw him last. It's been weeks for him. Still, doesn't help. He thought he'd found some measure of peace. No. Anger wells up inside him. Missy holds up her gloved hands.

"Doctor - "

"How the hell did you get in here?" the Doctor says, and clenches his jaw. "Get out."

"If you give me a chance to explain - "

"How did you even find me?" The Doctor holds the door open, points. "Get the _hell_ out of my TARDIS. I can't even look at you."

"No." Missy sits down again.

"Now."

"No."

The Doctor lets the door slam shut. Marches over to the base of the stairs. "You lied to me. How long did you know?"

Missy narrows her eyes. "How long did I know what?" She stands, comes down the stairs, brushes past him.

"That it was Clara. Clara, and Ashildir - "

"The Abomination you created?" Missy snaps. She leans against the console. The TARDIS makes a low drone, and she stands up straight, rolls her eyes.

"That it was them, in the diner. Following me, because they were worried, and it seems rightfully so, about what you - and I were doing together." The Doctor faces her. "Clara was worried what you were doing to me. Looks like she was correct, because you recognised her. You knew it was her, and you didn't tell me."

"I - I did," says Missy. "That was what I was up to."

"So you admit it? You hid her from me. Why? Actually, no. I know why, same reason as always. Get out."

Missy grabs his forearm. He tries to pull free, but she tightens her grip.

"She ran away from you. She didn't reveal herself to you."

"She did, she did in the end. That's why she was at the ball. To say goodbye, before she went - away to fulfil her timeline. She was so brave."

For a brief second, Missy closes her eyes, tips her head to one side. She's checking. She opens her eyes again, blue boring into green. Runs her tongue along the edge of her teeth.

"If that's what you say," she says strangely. "After all. What else could it have been."

"You shut - you need to leave Missy. You lied to me. I can't even look at you."

"I don't want to go," Missy says, and her teeth worry at her lip. "This isn't how this goes."

"Usually it blows up in both our faces," the Doctor says. "This time it's just you. You lied to me again, and again and again, and not even for a plan or gain, just because - what, did you think I'd reject you? If I knew Clara was still alive? You did vanish when I was travelling with Lahni."

"Haven't you always?"

"Haven't I always _what_?"

"I'm only worth your time when there's no humans crawling round needing you as a guide," Missy says, and her hand slips so her nails dig in. "I don't know why I thought this time would be different, you get your humans back and I'm sidelined again."

"And off you go to destroy a city or a planet or build an empire." The Doctor frowns harder as Missy scoffs.

"Hobbies are _healthy_."

"Temper tantrums are _not_."

Missy twitches and the Doctor remembers, centuries ago, the Master slapping him while he was tied to a chair. She holds his wrist tighter, breathes out slowly. He holds up a hand, points a finger at her. Speaks slowly.

"Don't you dare hit me."

"She lied to you Doctor, and worse, she wasn't _me_ lying to you. And what she did was worse than anything I've done, personally. Your memory gone, you believed her dead but off she went!" Missy releases his wrist, whirls, throws her hands in the air. "Gallivanting off around the universe with that abomination of a human you helped create! Stolen TARDIS technology-"

"Missy, be fair here, we stole TARDISes too-"

"We are Time Lords!" she shouts. "We know how to fly our TARDISes!" Missy turns back, ticks off her points on her fingers. "We know how to protect them, communicate with them, fight with them, charge them, repair them, soothe them. No matter what we do, try to deny it - TARDISes are of Gallifrey, and _we_ are of Gallifrey, even if we rejected their practises. What they were doing was, was - like teenagers who had stolen a Ferrari, _joyriding_ around with it in first. They were joyriding about for years before she realised we were together again," Missy says. "She was meant to go right back to Gallifrey and die like a good little girl. Just took the long way round. It wasn't about _you_."

"You knew. You knew for - God knows how long, years? _Decades_? And you let me think-"

"I realised, at most, two years ago. My time. Your time, well. Less. You cram these visits together, trying not to let the loneliness creep in." Missy leans against the railing, breathing heavily, holds one hand over her left heart, lets it drop to her stomach. "You can't be alone. Too scared of what all the dark and quiet might do to you." Her eyes bore into him, then dart away.

"The dark," she says, almost to herself. "The deep and lovely, dark, the deep and lovely dark, look at it, it's beautiful, truly." She lowers her voice, copies his accent again. "The deep and lovely dark. We'd never see the stars without it."

Their daughter had been scared of the dark. He'd come up with that saying to help lull her to sleep.

The Doctor unbuttons his coat, shoves his hands in his pockets, ignores the pain flaring in his chest. "I thought you liked being alone."

"I do like being alone, Doctor," Missy spits. "I don't like being lone _ly_. You know the worst part of Clara Clara Clara being back? You think Clara and I are dead on Skaro, Skaro the planet of the beings who destroyed our people, our race, executed me at least once, and who do you mourn, my dear? Clara Clara _Clara_. Not a tear for the Mistress, no, your supposed closest _friend_ , the one you give your Confession Dial to, the mother of your _child_ \- "

"You do not get to use that on me, Missy, _don't you dare_."

"I'm not talk - "

The Doctor leans forward, right in her face, and Missy stutters into silence.

"We forgave each other for that. That issue is closed," the Doctor spits. "That's basically the only thing we've ever made peace with. You still haven't let go of when I was fifteen and broke your favourite stylus. You don't leave _that_ in the cold for two millennia to dangle in front of me when you get a uterus again because we both know it isn't worth a damn."

Missy opens her mouth, closes it. Starts again. "Do you know what it felt like when I heard you calling for Clara Oswald on Skaro?"

"I don't remember Skaro, Missy, I'm sorry."

"I died, then Clara. You saw us both go - "

"You always survive, Missy, it's just what you do - "

"I was _shot_ by a Dalek. Only species in the universe with a laser that causes death and prevents regeneration in one fell - "

"Oh!" the Doctor shouts, hitting the console. Something breaks. "Forgive me for not believing _one Dalek_ could take you out! Any other time you'd consider that an insult! You survived everything from your military service to running out of regenerations to me burning you alive, to turning into a cat, another execution by the Daleks, shot by your wife and _refused_ to regenerate specifically to spite me - "

"Don't think so highly of yourself - "

"To the Time War and the prison camps, _twice_ \- "

"I - "

"I probably assumed you had a contingency plan or sixty in place," the Doctor shouts over her. He lowers his voice. Continues, "And I have no doubt I assumed correct, because here you are, once again. You _lied_ to me Missy, for years, about something I cared about, something that affected me and don't tell me it was for my own good, or my protection."

"Clara was stalking you up and down your timeline. They weren't obeying the laws of time, could have ripped a hole in the fabric of reality with some of the crash-landings they did, playing with time loops and paradoxes - "

"And they can't build a paradox machine to prevent that happening," the Doctor snaps, and the TARDIS shudders. "If you actually cared you would have stopped them doing that. You lied to me. You're selfish and evil and I don't know why I'm surprised. For some reason I thought you were going to change this time."

"That was _not_ part of our agreement," Missy says, and gives the base of the railing a solid kick. "Up and down your timeline, they were. Chameleon circuit offline, that's fine, perception filter. Faulty. I was keeping an eye on them, Doctor. I'm not a good Time Lord, Doctor, we both know that, but I'll be damned if Gallifrey gets destroyed again because of their irresponsibility - if Gallifrey is going to be destroyed by anything, it's going to be me who brings that fire and pain."

"You used to want to rule it." the Doctor says quietly. "You've always wanted to rule it."

"Calm down. They made _you_ President again," says Missy. "Seems they'll just give the job to anyone. What's the damn point if it's so easy? Had Clara had fucked off and died, like she said she would, I'd be happy. None of this would have happened. I would have come to you, and this might have all worked out."

"Might?"

Missy grimaces, presses her hand over her left heart. The Doctor figures she's trying to distract him. Ignores it. He thumps his fist on the console.

" _Might_?" he repeats.

"Probably. Almost definitely, if we kept putting in the effort. I like this Doctor, I really liked this, and all good things need time, and effort and-"

"You're talking like it's over. Is this over?"

"No," Missy stops, stock-still. Stares at him. "No. This is not over. However - "

"This conversation certainly isn't over, and we are going to finish it."

"I liked this. I like - projects. You give me, direction, sometimes. I like seeing you, talking to you, being with you, making lo - " Missy stops, sticks out her tongue, and the Doctor grimaces too. "The sex," Missy says, carefully, tightly. "Always a fan, dear. I miss our talks, I always miss - my friend. I miss you. So we go back to missing each other? We can't go back to that."

"We're not so different," the Doctor says. "The difference we have though, MIssy, is I choose to help people rather than harm them."

"It's not an active choice for you," Missy says. "Do you think this has been easy for me? Do you think the easiest course of action on, on on - Qonsungan, would it have been easier for me to deal with you alone without those ridiculous hosts coming in, trying to figure out what species we were? I could have killed them or locked them in the basement but I thought you'd get all pissy when you came to. Do you think it's easy changing 2000 years of habits whenever you're around is easy? It is. _Exhausting_."

"Do you think I haven't slid back in your direction?" the Doctor asks quietly. "You're a _terrible_ influence. I always think I'm stronger than this. I'm an idiot. I always think. Thought. I thought this could work. Never figured you'd give up on being you, but I thought I could trust you during these, visits, outings, _dates_ , because you always want to call them that. But no. You've ruined it. How can I even trust you to be on this ship? How did I let myself trust you?"

Missy just stares at her feet, clenching her fists.

"Answer me," the Doctor says. "Tell me, Missy. What happens now? What was your plan?"

"I didn't have a plan," Missy says, and she turns and heads up the staircase, sits down in the Doctor's armchair. "I don't have a plan. I don't know what to do. I'm tired."

The Doctor follows her up the stairs, refusing to let her take the high ground. Missy cups her chin in one hand, rests her elbow on the armrest.

"I would have told you about Clara. Broken the news, properly. When it suited me best," she says quietly. "She really blindsided me. Didn't see her coming." Missy clicks her teeth together. "Martha Jones, all over again. That said, at least Martha exceeded you, she didn't _become_ you."

The Doctor leans against the bookshelf, rests his temple against the _Time Traveller's Wife_. "…Is this what you wanted to tell me? That night you got into bed with me and stormed out of the room five minutes later?"

Missy gives him a look of utter, dripping disdain. Raises an eyebrow.

_"Excuse me?"_

"You - you came into my room, wanted to shag, then when I said no, you wanted to talk." the Doctor looks at her. "Were you going to tell me about Clara?"

Missy studies her fingernails. "No, no. It wasn't about that," she says flatly.

The Doctor feels the anger rising again. "Then what was it about, Missy?"

"Not right now. We're not having this discussion now." Missy stands.

The Doctor grabs her shoulders, shoves her down into the armchair. Holds her down. Missy glares up at him, pushes his hands off her.

" _We are having this discussion_ , _right now_ ," the Doctor says. Plants another hand on her shoulder, holds her against the chair. "Just too hard to keep track of all of your schemes, is it?"

Missy folds her arms over her chest. "It's not that. I've forgotten what it was about." She waves a hand. "It's not important. I'll deal with it myself."

"No. No," the Doctor says. Releases her, steps back, breathes out. "You've been strange, stranger than usual. Wanting to tell me stuff, rocketing from clingy to standoffish at a hundred miles an hour. Having that weird cold and running a temperature."

He watches Missy's face beginning to fall, pushes on, feeling like pieces in a jigsaw are slotting together, though he can't see the bigger picture yet. He feels sick. His hearts hurt. "And I didn't believe you for five minutes when you said it was a _bath_ , we're not cold-blooded. And you've stopped smoking. What's going on?"

Missy shakes her head.

"Tell me, Missy."

"No. Well. It looks like you're already on the right track," says Missy, hand over her left heart again. "Just continue marching on down the highway to hell, because it's a bundle of damn joy at the end."

Pain flares up in his chest - the right side of his chest, and something must show on his face because Missy nods, once.

"Oh." his hearts skip a beat, and Missy nods again. " _Oh_."

The Doctor swallows down a sudden wave of nausea. He leans heavily against the books, clutches onto one of the shelves to keep himself upright.

"No. No."

Missy doesn't look at him. She slumps back in the chair, nods, her jaw tight. The Doctor sinks to his knees. Sits on the floor like a child.

"No. This can't be happening."

"It's happening." Her voice is hoarse. "For now. I've been working on that part."

"How long have you known?"

Missy shrugs.

"How long have you known, Missy?" the Doctor repeats, through clenched teeth.

She shrugs again.

"Missy. Mistress. Ko - Missy." The Doctor can't stop being angry, simmering under the shock, the rest of the emotions he doesn't even want to try to process. He leans forward, reaches out with one hand, still on his knees. "Don't you dare lie to me. How long have you known you're pregnant?"

"Known? Qonsungan," says Missy. "Not sure how far along, though. A good few months." She rests her elbows on her knees, looks at the floor, sounds like she's a million years old. "It's hard to tell without the right equipment. And war TARDISes - "

"Don't have the diagnostic capabilities," the Doctor says. "And this TARDIS-"

"I destroyed the medical scanners to get parts for your shields," Missy says quietly. "I mean, why would we need them, we haven't for two thousand-odd years. And believe me, please believe me. I wanted to tell you. Even when I wasn't sure, I had a feeling. I was hoping I'd been imagining things, temperatures and dreams and feelings and being, needing to be near you, all the time, then not being able to tell you. I was going to tell you after the ball. But how could I? This will kill you."

The Doctor stares at her. "Missy - "

"It's started projecting. Faintly. The mother feels it first," Missy continues. "You might already be feeling it and not have realised. I knew there was no way around it, then, you'd recognise the sensation."

"The psychic link between parents and foetuses?"

"Well, you didn't fail biology," Missy snaps, then her face softens. "You got the right side again," she adds, sniffs, then grimaces. "Hormones." She swipes at her face with the heel of her hand, looks up at the Doctor. "No, not hormones. It's you projecting. Stop. Stop it, you bastard."

"I'm so angry with you," the Doctor says. He stands up, leans over her, looks down. "God, Missy."

Missy rolls her eyes. Finally looks at him. Her eyes are so blue. "Can we hit pause on this Clara issue for a few hours?"

"You're not getting away with what you did, Missy - "

"You really want to talk about Clara right now?"

"Well, how do I know you didn't do this deliberately to - "

Missy stands in a second, slaps him across the face. The Doctor stumbles. The sound echoes around the console room.

"Do you think I _wanted_ this?" Missy snarls, gesturing at herself. "You know what, fuck it."

Missy shoves him out of her way. The Doctor collides with the bookshelf as she storms off into the TARDIS.

"Come back here!" the Doctor shouts, steadying himself.

She yells back in another language, and hears her smashing something. The air pressure drops and the TARDIS begins to shuffle the corridors around.

"What?" the Doctor says, looking around. "What? What are you doing? Are you actually helping her?"

He falls back into his armchair, covers his face with his hands. The TARDIS settles, and everything goes silent.

 

*** * ***

_Two visitors, two thousand years ago._

 

It's before dawn when he wakes up, feeling well-rested, the familiar ache in his knees notwithstanding. He rolls over, finds a surprising warm form in bed next to him. Koschei smiles at him from across the pillows, blinks slowly with her dark eyes.

"Hello," Koschei mumbles, holding onto his wrist. She lifts his hand to her mouth, kisses it. "Good morning, beautiful."

"Hello to you too," Theta says, tracing his hand up and down her side, soft and warm and smooth. He squeezes her hip. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

Koschei leans across and kisses him. She draws back, peers at his face. Smirks.

"Do you hear that?" she asks.

"Hear what?" Theta listens. It's raining lightly outside, and he can hear the faint squawk of some stilt-birds. Probably in his garden. "It's raining."

"I hear no children disturbing us," says Koschei, kissing him again. Theta winds his fingers into her curly hair. "I hear - "

"Nothing but you," Theta says. "This is a nice change."

He kisses down Koschei's neck, breathes in her smell, works his way down to her collarbone. She moves against him, and he tugs down her loose shirt to kiss her sternum. Koschei presses his face into her chest, runs her hands down his back.

"Clothes off," she says after a moment. "Quietly. This is happening. Work has been awful lately."

Theta and Koschei sit up, and Theta pulls his nightshirt off over her head as she unbuttons hers. Koschei straddles him, moves her hips in small circles, making them both gasp. Theta holds the back of her neck, kisses her throat, feels her pulses thrumming. He licks her earlobe.

"If we're not careful - " Koschei begins, then giggles when Theta nibbles on her neck. "We could have another one."

Theta keeps kissing her, touching her. Cups her breasts, runs his hands down over her stomach, her thighs, up her back.

"Would that really be such a bad thing?" he finally says, leaning back to look at Koschei. She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth tilting up. Theta presses their foreheads together.

"No, no it wouldn't," Koschei says. She holds his face in her hands, kisses him lightly. "But, my Lord Theta, to business," she says, professionally, and Theta laughs.

Koschei runs her cool palm down his stomach. She shifts in his lap, freezes. Theta does too, his hands on her bare hips. They look at each other, stock-still.

"I did hear _that_ ," says Theta.

There's the sound of small feet slapping on the polished floorboards. Koschei swings out of Theta's lap and they both lie down, grabbing the covers and yanking them up. Just in time. Arah bursts into the room, flies across the carpet and leaps onto the bed, scrambles up between her parents. Theta sits up again and grabs her around the middle, hugs her to his side, tickles her feet. Arah laughs, kicks out and wiggles free.

"Papa! There's Nymana birds outside, eating all the, the - why is mama in here too?"

Koschei sits up. "Morning, darling," she says, and Arah's face splits into a grin.

Arah throws her arms around Koschei's neck. Koschei pecks her on the cheek. "You did very well to tell him about the birds. That's why I'm here," Koschei says, and Theta smacks her over the head playfully.

"Then why are you in bed? Where are your clothes?"

"We're just talking," says Theta. "We were having a private talk. Remember how I told you about knocking? Well - clearly not."

Arah ignores him, heads to the end of the bed and starts jumping on the mattress. "Birds!" she says.

"I can't wait till you're at the Academy and I can sleep in," says Koschei dramatically, pulling the blankets up over her head again.

"She doesn't mean that?" Arah stops jumping, looks aghast in the way only a four-year-old can.

Koschei sits up. "Oh sweetheart, come here, I was joking," and Arah clambers into her mother's lap.

Koschei wraps her arms around her, drops kisses all over her head, smooths her tangled curly hair back. Theta leans over and catches Koschei's face, kisses her on the lips. Koschei hums, cups the back of his neck and spreads her fingers into his hair. Arah stares at them both and pulls a face. Theta and Koschei break apart. Theta rests his head on Koschei's shoulder, wiggles his eyebrows at his daughter.

"You two are yuck," says Arah, pulling a face. "So yuck. It's not proper or polite."

Theta sighs, kisses a suddenly-tense Koschei on the cheek. Arah sticks her tongue out.

"Arah - "

"Kosch, don't, she's just - " Theta begins.

"Arah, that's your uncle talking, and I don't want you repeating him," Koschei says darkly. "He's a complete moron. You shouldn't listen to his backwards mode of thinking." Then, light again, she ruffles Arah's hair. "Right. It's still the crack of firstdawn, so back to bed with you, sweetheart."

"But I'm not _tired_. There are Nymana birds. Papa, tell her."

"I'm sure they've destroyed everything they came to wreck," Theta says. "But thank you for trying, baby."

"Can I sleep with you two?"

Theta looks at Koschei. Koschei looks at Theta.

"Ah. We need to finish that talk," Koschei says. "Important grown up discussion."

"You were talking about Nymana birds. Papa just said they're done," says Arah.

"We - we're getting you a present," Theta says. "We need private time to talk about it. So you need to go back to bed, hm?"

Arah's eyes grow wide. "Really?"

"Yes, we are," Koschei says. "So back to bed with you." Arah bolts from the room. "And shut the door, sweetheart!" The door is slammed.

A few seconds later, they hear Arah's own door slam.

"Are we getting her a present? What will we - " Theta begins, but is cut off when Koschei nips at his lower lip.

"Give me an orgasm and you can do whatever you want," Koschei says, kisses him again. "I love you."

"Love you too. But just one?" Theta asks, rubbing her back, pulling her into his lap. He presses their foreheads together. "You really are tense."

"It's more time pressure. We've got about fourteen minutes before our beloved daughter decides it's time for breakfast."

 

 


	11. a tiny bit of sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reality really ensues.

> _Sometimes the only choices you have to make are bad ones. But you still have to choose. - The Doctor._

After hours of searching, the Doctor finds Missy stripped down to her underdress in some dusty old spare room deep in the TARDIS. Missy lies on a beaten-up couch, her feet propped up on two encyclopedias. Her ballgown is strewn on the hallway floor outside. The Doctor steps over the expensive pile of fabric, knocks on the doorframe. The door creaks ominously.

"Can we talk?" the Doctor asks.

"Have you calmed down?"

"We're going to have a truce," he says to Missy. "Not peace, not neutral time like we've been having. A truce."

She's holding ice to her forehead, rolls her eyes at him. The Doctor dips his fingers into the bowl next to her, half-filled with melted water and ice-cubes. Takes a cube out, holds it tightly in his fist, feels it melting through his fingers. It drips loudly onto the floor. Missy twitches, watches the water falling.

"A truce," she says. She picks another chunk of ice out of the bowl, puts it in her mouth. Crunches it up loudly. The Doctor gives her a look. "I'm low in iron," she says defensively.

"A truce. After - we deal with this. After you're better. We will talk about Clara. She told me you knew she was alive," he says, his voice low. "I am so angry, Missy, and hurt by what you did. And we will talk about our agreement, and you will listen."

"You listen too," Missy says. She draws the ice down to her neck, runs it across her veins. "And listen well."

"Why aren't you just sitting in an air-conditioned part of the TARDIS?" the Doctor asks. "There's a plunge pool. Somewhere. I've heard."

"Too cold, and air-conditioners have been giving me headaches," says Missy. She lies back with a groan. "You're acting like I wanted this to happen. When we're _both_ _better_ , we will talk about Clara. You will see sense."

"We need to talk about this. Can we talk?"

"Have you calmed down?" Missy chews on another ice cube, waits. She squints at his face. "You look like how I feel. Come on. Help me up."

The TARDIS guides them to the green, flowery kitchen with the dark oak cabinets, the Doctor leading the way through the corridors. The sink is an old, deep brass one, with a big Aga in the corner. The Doctor is the one to sit, tapping his foot under the kitchen table. It's carved with patterns of spiralling ivy and roses. He trails his fingers down the notches in the wood. Missy leans against the bench, purses her lips. The kettle boils, and she pours water into the teapot.There's a sunflower carved into one of the table's corners. It's very pretty. He picks at one of the petals with his thumbnail.

"Good talk," Missy says finally. She pops her lips.

The Doctor stares at her. She leans against the bench again, one hand on her hip. He rubs his sternum with the heel of his hand, the last few months of his life playing on a loop in his head. Keeps staring.

"Stop it," Missy says. "Stop staring. I'm not showing." Then she tilts her head and exhales, runs her hand down her middle, puts it back on her hip. "A little. I'm showing a little."

"Months. So." The Doctor lays his palms flat on the table. "You knew on Qonsungan?"

Missy sighs dramatically, looks at her feet. Looks up at him, her eyes flat. "Do we have to do this?"

The Doctor slams his fist down. The cutlery rattles. Missy jumps.

" _Yes_. Yes, Missy. We are having this talk."

"Perhaps - "

"You don't get to tell me to do anything. You were lying about Clara so long, about this, who knows what else you've been lying about."

"Oh no, this should be about it." Missy grits her teeth. "I _realised_ on Qonsungan. When you first poisoned yourself, I was around the other side of a hill, couldn't see you. You went down like a ton of bricks, and the foetus felt it before I did. And then I went down like a ton of bricks." She catches his look. "It _hurts_ , Doctor, in case you had forgotten. It's agonizing."

"You stopped wearing corsets." The Doctor drops his head into his hands. "I'm an idiot."

"I was suspicious when I stopped wearing them. I thought, I hoped - maybe they were just growing, and I tried to put it out of my mind," Missy says, putting his cup in front of him, placing the teapot in the middle of the table. "Regardless. The corsets had to go. My boobs were just - " she holds her hands up near her chin. She's trying to make him laugh. It's not working. "In them. How could you suspect something you had no reason to? Hell, like I said. I didn't suspect for ages, then I didn't let myself think of it. The temperatures? Maybe I was just sick. Morning nausea? Hangovers. Ate a bad kebab. The dreams about, I ignored the dreams. Then - "

"You've been dreaming? About what?" the Doctor asks.

"All my effort went into not waking you up," says Missy smoothly. "So I couldn't let myself linger on them. You know. Usually, they were. Us. Before we left. Before everything happened." She pauses, examines her fingers. "Doctor. Please. Believe me when I say I didn't want this to happen."

"You're the Mistress," the Doctor says, looking back at the table, the fine carvings. Did he do them himself? "What can I expect? You're always. Running. Something."

Missy makes a noise at the back of her throat and pours the tea. Steam curls up between them. The Doctor feels himself rising out of his body, trying to look at this, at Missy, at what they've done, as a third party's issue. A mechanical problem to be solved. It doesn't work.

"Sugar?"

"Just leave it, Missy," he says. "So you sound like you've made a decision already."

"I don't think I have a choice," says Missy, stirring her tea. "It's not a decision if you only have one viable option. And after that option, everything will go back to normal."

The Doctor rubs his face, stares up at her.Missy taps her teaspoon on the side of the cup with three chinks, puts it on the tabletop. Straightens it so it's perpendicular to the table's edge.

"It's a complicated procedure," she says cooly. "Physically, the location of the foetus is difficult to access. And mentally, getting rid of one is quite strenuous as well. You can imagine. Doctor?"

"I can," he says numbly. "You think after this we'll be back to _normal_?"

"My dear. We have no other options. In regards to this, situation, and our usual….situation. The wheel turns and nothing changes, no matter how many years pass or wars are fought or humans you pick up or accidents - we have." Missy takes a quick drink of tea, winces. "'S hot. We have no other options."

"I don't think we do either," he says slowly, not letting himself think about any form, shape of any alternatives. "So. How? I can't perform a surgery like that on you. Gallifrey would do it, but they wouldn't let us leave." He makes himself take a sip of tea. It burns his mouth and throat, makes him cough. "Or alternatively. They'll execute you, which will alleviate the issue to an extreme."

Missy stands, gets him the sugar bowl. He spoons some into his tea as she talks, stirs it, the teaspoon clinking on the sides of the cup.

"At the end of the day. The only viable option I can see working, with minimal repercussions, is the Sisterhood of Karn," says Missy. "Ohila likes you. Given value of like. Appreciates you. Treats you like an annoying stray cat. End the time war, and you can get away with most things."

"When did you meet the Sisterhood?"

"They met with me centuries ago," says Missy. "After I was exiled from Gallifrey. They wanted to know if I wanted to join their little gang. Made such a fuss about it and then avoided me after I ran out of regenerations. Didn't approve of my methods, like their own are so fine and dandy and nice. I hadn't seen Ohila until she showed up on my doorstep with your confession dial. No idea how she found me. How did you meet them, by the way?"

"Long story, I'll explain later," the Doctor says. "Crashed spaceship. Just before the war really began to kick off."

"I would still have been in the Matrix, then. Well. The Sisterhood. They have the abilities and resources. And the last thing they'll want in the universe is for the Mistress to have a baby."

A baby.

"They might tell the Time Lords."

Missy shakes her head, bites her nails.

"They were on Gallifrey when I went back. I've - " the Doctor frowns. "No idea how they got there. I'm not sure about them - No., no. They were on _Gallifrey_ , Missy. They were in the catacombs. I remember that much."

"Then, if they won't help me, I'll pay off a good surgeon," Missy says, not listening. "A really, really good surgeon." The possibility of an alien surgeon able to operate on a Time Lady is a remote one at the very least, and they both know this. "I've been investigating it all on my own. I'd just rather. Not. Have. To." Her jaw tightens and her fists clench. "I'd rather have a Gallifreyan do it, if I need. To let someone else, do it, will be difficult for me." She raps her knuckles against the table. "I'd do it myself, but I can't. I looked into it and it's too late. I wasn't going to tell you, had been able to deal with it myself. Earlier. And then, everything will go back to normal."

He sees her biting the inside of her mouth. The Doctor puts his hand over her fist, realises how tense she is for the first time. Under the shock, he can still feel the anger. Focuses.

"You've put a lot of thought into this," the Doctor says. "You're right."

"I've had a week or two. The Sisterhood will have me in their debt unfortunately, if they need to call in a favour. But out of all the - alternative options, what they may ask of me will be achievable. The potential loss of future autonomy versus, well, everything else wins out."

" _Us_ , Missy."

"Hm?"

"The Sisterhood will have _us_ owing them a favour. But they were working with the Time Lords, and with me involved - "

"Why would the Sisterhood tell the Time Lords about something _I_ need done? They won't think of you."

"Seriously?"

The Doctor holds his hands up, stares at her. Missy tilts her head at him. He gestures vaguely at her, and then himself. She continues to look confused. The Doctor lets his breath out in a rush. Covers his eyes for a second, wishes the universe would just end so he doesn't have to deal with everything all the time. Doesn't want to say it. Folds his hands on the table, looks at her. Says it in a rush, hearts pounding.

"They'll know I'm the father." He doesn't stutter. "If Gallifrey hears about it they will guess as well."

Missy stares at him. The Doctor sets his jaw.

"They will, won't they." Missy purses her mouth, glares around the kitchen. Shakes her head. "I'm a fool. Can't even tell them it's another Time Lord, because it's always the _Mistress_ and the _Doctor_. Best enemies. Why has it always been you?" her voice is quiet. "What did I do to deserve you?"

The TARDIS creaks around them.

"I've got two answers for you on that, but I don't think you want to hear either of them. Missy." He drops his head into his hands.

Missy breathes out through her nose, uncurls her fists. He hears her walking over to him. Missy places her hands on his head and strokes his hair back.

"There's no other way. I'm getting rid of it, I just haven't been able to figure out how. I'm doing it, with or without you."

The Doctor leans away from her. "Please don't touch me." He waits for Missy to step back from him, holds her arms awkwardly by her sides. "You don't need to be so clinical," he says.

Another sigh. "I've had longer to process this. Be thankful I'm not brutal."

The Doctor takes a moment. Chuckles bitterly, shaking his head.

"What is it?"

"I don't even _like_ sex that much."

Missy rests her hand on the back of his neck, runs her thumb along the base of his hairline. She's far too warm. He shrugs her off. Waits for her to walk away.

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor ends up in his study, swivelling back and forth on his chair, staring at the bookshelf. The TARDIS has taken the liberty of filling it with medical textbooks and planetary guides, and the polished shelves groan under their weight. He purses his lips.

"I don't know if you're trying to help me, or punish me," he says finally, standing and crossing to the shelves. One entire shelf is full of Gallifreyan medical texts. "Surgery is out of the question. I'd end up killing her. Which would also solve the problem but - "

"I don't know how many regenerations I have left," Missy says, from where she's leaning against the doorframe. She's gotten dressed again, at least. Her hair is half done, pinned back from her face, tumbling down her back in messy curls.

The Doctor turns away from her. "Oh. You're still here."

"Of course I'm still here. I've only got a couple of options left to explore. So unless you really do want to kill me properly this time, and if so, I'd prefer to be set on fire, I'll be around here. It's becoming traditional."

"I don't feel like talking, Missy. I don't even want to look at you right now."

Missy comes in anyway. His desk creaks as she leans against it, crosses her arms. Clicks her tongue.

The Doctor picks a book. It's a guide to New(^56) New York, full of the best hospitals and surgeons in the universe. However, the costs were exorbitant.

"Checked them out," Missy says. "Shadow Proclamation are everywhere. I don't fancy trying to sneak in and out." She rummages in a pocket, comes out with her glasses. Puts them on, rummages in another pocket, brings out her own notebook. "The Sisterhood is all I have left to examine. New (^56) New York, out. Earth, out despite beings with knowledge of Gallifreyan anatomy, as out of the two Gallifreyans they are in contact with, I am the one they hate. Gallifrey, hahaha. Jupiter, closed borders due to influenza outbreak. Then, influenza destroys entire medical infrastructure, leading to the downfall of most of the solar system's - anyway." Missy flips through three more pages. "Backwater, backalley, backalley, at war with itself."

"You've been treating this like an - "

"Illness. Issue. Mechanical fault. I said just before, Doctor. It's not a choice if we only have one viable option."

"Did you - " the Doctor stops absently skimming the chapter on museums in New (^56) New York. "Oh. Maentin'moune?"

"Only the most obvious answer in the universe," Missy says. "My DNA is wired into their planetary defence systems. I can't go within 12 parsecs without being blasted out of the sky."

"Right, right." The Doctor puts the book back, takes another off the shelf at random, finds it's about Australian adoption systems in the 1950s. "So, shall we check with the Sisterhood of Karn?"

"No."

"Worried about Gallifrey?" The Doctor turns to look at her. Missy snorts. "What?"

"I think I can still see my handprint on your face."

The Doctor shakes his head. "It's not funny - "

"Glass houses, my Lord Doctor. I'll go to the Sisterhood. You never know, they might not ask too many questions. " Missy crosses the room, takes the Doctor's book off him and puts it back on the shelf. Straightens his lapels, holds onto the fabric of his coat. Twists it in her fingers, runs her thumbs over the red velvet. "And we'll see."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, no. The Time Lords could be there. Better they get one of us, than both of us," Missy says. "God. I'm so selfless these days. It's awful, I don't like it."

"I want to come with you. Make sure you don't do anything stupid." The Doctor stares her down. "Missy, I'm so an - "

" _Emotional_. It's easier however, for you to be angry, so stick with it, it's a good plan. It's also why I don't want you coming," she says. "I won't do anything without you - "

"You were doing this for months without me! Was that your plan - get rid of it and then not mention anything?"

Missy rolls her eyes. "As plans go, it wasn't my best. I've not been thinking straight."

The Doctor swallows, blinks hard. Looks up at the ceiling. Missy points at him.

"Proving my argument exactly. Stick to anger." She's still holding onto his coat. "I've been panicking. Now that's your job. Isn't that what you do? Make stuff up on the fly and run and try and sort it? Just do that." Missy reaches up and strokes him on the cheek where she hit him. Pauses. Moves and kisses the corner of his mouth. Then his lips. She's running three degrees above average; she smells different too - stronger, somehow, and it makes him want to go along with her current intentions.

"No," says the Doctor into her mouth, resting his hands on her waist. "No." He slowly pushes her back again. "I don't want to do that - that's, that's - chemicals going off, all over you."

Missy quirks her eyebrow.

"Before you go to the Sisterhood." The Doctor breathes out. "Let's go through your notes again. You probably missed something."

"Seriously?" Missy asks.

"Seriously. I need to see them."

The Doctor steps back, holds out his hand. Missy rolls her eyes again, slaps her notebook into his palm, doesn't let her fingers touch his skin. She crosses the room and takes a seat on his couch, crosses her legs at the ankle. Leans forward, mockingly attentive. The Doctor opens the notebook to the first page.

"Jupiter before the outbreak," he says, and Missy sighs dramatically. "Well. Their antivirus technology was the only thing to develop, really, during that period, and - "

"We're banned from Jupiter," Missy says. "We both are. Don't you remember? We pickpocketed the Viceroy centuries ago. Like Maentin'moune, they have the wherewithal and know-how to blast us out of their airspace. Even if we land directly at one of their medical stations."

"Right," says the Doctor. "Next. Riten XI."

"This is ridiculous, can't you just trust - "

"Riten XI, Missy."

"At least sit with me."

The Doctor raises an eyebrow at her. Takes a pointed seat on top of his desk, across the room from her. "Riten XI. Off the list because of the rivers of sulphuric acid?"

"Too many suns. And they overspecialise in chemical burns." Missy claps her hands. "I don't want this, you talking to me all Mr Grumpyface, like I'm an irresponsible five year old. You can do this yourself - there's a blackboard for your aesthetic, or whatever."

"You're not an irresponsible five year old," says the Doctor, feeling exhausted.

Missy pauses. "Then why the tenth degree?"

"Because - " the Doctor looks around the room, holds his hands up. "Because I still don't know if you didn't do this on purpose. How can I presume you were thorough if this is a scheme of - sit down, Missy - "

"No. No, this is fine. You go - edit my work, check my stocktake. There's a hundred and fifty-odd options on there, it's harder than you think to find a place capable of operating on a Time Lady, able to keep it a secret and able to let me live afterwards." Missy stares at him, sneers. "Hm. Chew on that while you peruse my findings. I'm going to do something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Doctor," Missy snaps. She breathes out through her nose, covers her face with her fists. "I can't believe you don't understand me on this. Why would I want this? I'm going to…read those Harry Potter books you're always on about. Or throw up, because it feels like morning to me." She gets up and marches out of his study, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The Doctor wishes she'd slammed it. He looks at the notebook again, Missy's careful handwriting spiralling over the pages. He clears his throat, finds a piece of chalk. Gets to work. After a few minutes, he hears piano music drifting through the halls of the TARDIS. Missy must have found her way to the instruments room. It's something by Glinka. He doesn't like Glinka. Missy certainly knows that.

"You're really not helping," he grumbles to the TARDIS.

 

*** * ***

 

It takes him fifteen hours and ten cups of tea before he concedes. Missy had been terrifyingly methodical in most of her search, though as the list of 170 potential solutions gets smaller, her handwriting becomes spikier and more erratic. The Doctor puts a cross through the last planet - Hechulanse, a haven for the rich and depraved in the 87th year of the Third Great and Bountiful Human Empire - and sits back on his sofa, staring at the crowded blackboard.

Missy keeps playing the piano. She's making her way through Bartók, whom the Doctor knows the Master had spent time with in Turkey.

He slips Missy's notebook into his own jacket, stands up and stretches, working out the kinks in his neck and shoulders. Walks. Missy is not in the instrument room. He follows the sound of the piano through the corridors to find Missy playing a big black grand piano in the corner of one of the TARDIS's random sitting rooms. He steps inside to find the room thickly carpeted and decorated in shades of blue. There's gold leaf on the archetraves and picture rail, a few small marble sculptures on the various low tables. A small fire crackles in the ornate fireplace in the corner. Missy nods at him as he walks in, keeps playing, tapping her left foot on the ground to keep time.

The Doctor crosses the room to the striped chaise-longue, changes his mind. Sits beside Missy on the piano bench as she finishes the last movement. She barely pauses before moving into something else, tinkly but soft and slow.

"I'm waiting for my apology," Missy says quietly. "Waiting, and waiting and wait-ing. Walking down the street."

The Doctor puts her notebook into her coat pocket, toys with the black fringe on the pocket's lip.

Missy bashes her fists on the piano. The discordant clang jolts the Doctor from his reverie. Missy lifts her hands off the keys, studies her fingers. Adjusts her brooch so it's perfectly straight on her collar and clears her throat. The fire is far too warm.

"That's not an apology," she continues, keeps playing.

"Is that - " the Doctor tips his head to one side, watching her fingers move. "Is that Pretty Woman?"

"Hm," Missy says, nodding. "I'm still waiting." She moves into the chorus, her voice growing harsher. "I'm also disgusted you would even - consider that I would do this deliberately to keep you around. You came to me, at the beginning of all this. It cycles through - I want you, you don't want me. You want me, I don't want you. We want each other but can't have each other, because I'm dead or you've got humans or some minor inconvenience like that. We do want each other, and then for a brief time, we can have each other." Missy hits a wrong note, swears. Stops and begins to stretch out her fingers. "And it's good. For a while. Why would I mess up a system that's worked for hundreds of years? Do you really think I can be a parent again?"

The Doctor shakes his head.

"We both know that's not going to happen," says Missy stiffly. "I failed pretty spectacularly last time."

"So did I."

Missy plays a quick minor scale. "Chopin," she says, and the Doctor put his left hand up on the keys as she removes her own. "Valse de l'adieu, merci." Then, she shifts on the seat, and sits with her legs folded under her. "You do the pedals."

They play through the entire waltz, albeit too slowly, the Doctor on the left hand and Missy on the right. After, Missy lets her head hang. Puts her hands in her lap. Her ring finger is bleeding. She blinks slowly.

"I didn't feel a damn thing," Missy mumbles, and the Doctor feels like they're sitting in their little house on Gallifrey two thousand years ago, dwarfed by the silence and the immense new gulf in their lives with their daughter gone. "Not a damned thing."

"Neither did I," the Doctor whispers.

Missy sits very still and the Doctor watches her chewing on her lower lip. He reaches out, presses one of the piano's keys. Missy hums along with it.

"Round two, you did much better," she says gently. "God, I loved your kids."

The Doctor loops his arm around her waist and squeezes her side. She stiffens under his arm.

"I loved our baby too," he says. "Still do."

"I don't know if you can love someone who by now counts for around 0.4 percent of your conscious lifespan. I still haven't heard an apology," Missy says in a rush, staring at the wall opposite them. "I didn't want to get pregnant. I don't want to be pregnant. Apologise to me."

The fire crackles. The Doctor tightens his arm around her. Kisses her on top of the head.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, into her hair, and Missy sags against him. "It was thoughtless of me. I shouldn't have even entertained the notion."

"I can't blame you," says Missy bitterly.

"I'm sorry."

Missy starts playing one handed, back into Bartók. She snakes her other arm around his waist.

"Let's go to bed together," the Doctor adds. "Stop, hey, you'll damage your hands."

"What? You want to - "

"I give up," says the Doctor. "I'm tired and I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Come on. We can go to the Sisterhood tomorrow."

" _I_ can go to the Sisterhood tomorrow."

"You can go," the Doctor says, deciding to fight on that front later.

"Your room is closest," says Missy, and stands, pulling him along with her.

He follows Missy down three corridors and up a staircase before they come across the blue-painted door to his bedroom. Inside, Missy leaves him to undress himself while she peels off her own clothes, pulls the Doctor across the room to the bed. He falls on top of her. Presses his face against her collarbone. Missy takes his face, makes him look at her. Kisses the tip of his nose.

"No crying," she says firmly, holding a finger up. Kisses him, moves so he's lying between her bare legs. "No sentiment."

"I've still got one sock on," the Doctor says, because that's all he can think of.

Missy tuts, releases him. He sits up, pulls the sock off. Chucks it over his shoulder. Missy sits up too, and the Doctor reaches out, traces one hand down her soft, curved side. Up into her hair, which is by now a half-curled mess. Across her face, and she kisses the pads of his fingers and he feels her breath on his skin. The Doctor moves his fingers down her chest, over the definite curve of her stomach, rests them there. Missy places her hand over his own, sliding her fingers into the gaps made by his own.

They breathe together for a moment, Missy's skin warm beneath his palm.

"A tiny bit of sentiment," she says, leaning over and kissing him. "I feel like we only have fourteen minutes," she adds, her lips still brushing his, and the Doctor is confused. Missy smiles sadly up at him. "Don't worry. Plenty of time."

 

*** * ***

 

He dreams of Clara, and of Time Lords, and, for the first time in hundreds of years, his first daughter. Hears Missy singing to him through the fog of sleep.

The Doctor wakes up with his face pressed into the silky skin of Missy's neck, Missy running her hand down his back. He rolls off her onto his back. Missy sits up against the headboard, smiles thinly at him. Rests her hand on his throat. She's holding her brooch in her other hand, rubbing her thumb over the face. He watches her, waits. Takes the brooch out of her hand and examines it for a minute. It's getting quite worn out.

"Sorry," says Missy. "I was thinking too loud."

"It's okay," he says, running his finger around the bumpy edge of the brooch. "I should make you a new one of these."

"I like that one," Missy says. "I only need that one." She shakes herself. "Right. Time to go," she says, standing and finding her underdress. She slips into that, picks up her crumpled skirt, pulls a face. Crosses the room to his wardrobe.

Missy has a spare outfit in the wardrobe in his bedroom, and the Doctor doesn't know how long that's been a reality. He watches her getting dressed, slipping on her stockings and buttoning her shirt, shaking out her coat and putting it on over her skirt. She sits to do her hair, combs it through with her fingers, black locks dark against her pale skin. She pauses, leans back and takes her brooch off him. Holds it in the palm of her hand. Clips it to her collar.

"You never used to do your hair. Last time you were female," the Doctor says finally, his voice rough. "Just washed it and put it up. I'm not complaining - "

"I know. Last time you knew me as a female, I was a very different person," says Missy. She starts twisting her hair up into a bun. "And. There's nothing wrong with being groomed. You should take a leaf out of my book. Comb your hair, or your eyebrows, or something. You need to shave."

All he can smell is Missy. She's on the blankets, on his skin. He should get out of bed. He should take a shower. He should do something. The Doctor rolls over and pulls the blankets over his head.

"I can put you back to sleep, if you want," says Missy.

"I don't want to sleep. I just want this not to have happened."

"I know." This time, she says it softer. "We'd rip a hole in space-time if we gave that a go. I'll be by when it's over. To let you know it's over. I might just phone you."

The Doctor stays very still under the covers. Blinks slowly in the grey gloom. Silence.

"Though one assumes you'll feel it before then," says Missy grimly. He peers out from under the covers, stares at the curves of Missy's back. Sees her looking down at her lap for a moment. She breathes out, rolls her shoulders, shakes her head. Straightens up. "Yes. We'll feel it."

A few minutes pass. The Doctor pulls the blankets back over his head. Listens to Missy picking up and putting down various makeup bottles.

"Stay for breakfast," he says.

"No, dear. I already feel sick and eating makes it worse."

He doesn't move. Missy starts humming, still getting ready, something in a minor key.

"One game of chess," says the Doctor eventually. "Or cards. We'll play poker."

Footsteps. The mattress dips, and Missy pulls back the blankets. Runs her hand over his shoulder, over the stubble on his face. She pushes her hand into his hair and tugs lightly on the strands until he looks up at her. Rubs small circles on his temple with her thumb. She can't look him in the eye.

"That's a no," she says. "Shall I put you back to sleep?"

"No. I can come," says the Doctor, hearts pounding. She's shaking her head. "Let me go with you. Missy - "

"No. No, no. Later." Missy leans in. Presses their foreheads together. "Later. We'll talk about this later."

"Missy, Missy, no - " the Doctor tries to sit up, move away.

She puts him to sleep.

 

*** * ***

_Visit Fifty-Eight_

He's reading Plath in his library, feet up on the table. The fire crackles and one of his surviving jazz records plays softly in the background. The TARDIS is trying to make him feel better. The Doctor reaches out, takes a sip of his tea, notes that his hands have at least stopped shaking. Suddenly from the console room there's a loud bang on the door. Sighing, the Doctor stands, crosses through the corridors, makes his way into the console area. Doesn't even both checking the scanner screen.

Missy stumbles in, trips over the lip of the door and the Doctor catches her. She bats him away, straightens up. Totters away through the hallways, back towards the library. She wanders through one of the aisles and finds a small wooden cabinet.

"What is - " the Doctor begins, until Missy opens one of the doors. "How - how many liquor cabinets are on this thing that I don't know about?"

Missy hands him a bottle of vodka, takes her own bottle of brandy and glass.

"Fuck," she says, and drops the glass, which smashes, catches the bottle awkwardly, then drops that. The Doctor manages to grab it out of the air. "Fucking - Time Lords," Missy mutters. She collects another glass, tucks it into her coat. "Everywhere. I had to run, run run away."

"Missy - "

"It's my birthday," she says, brushing past him.

"No, no it's not." The Doctor shakes himself, follows her.

Glass crunches under their shoes.

"Well, it's somebody's goddamn birthday."

He finally looks at her properly, sees her. "Missy, what are you - you're pregnant. You're still pregnant."

"That I am."

Missy sits in his chair, sending his book to the floor. The Doctor rescues his cup of tea, puts it on the table along with the bottle of vodka. Missy carefully pours a glass of brandy, slurps loudly at it for a good few minutes. The Doctor cups his chin in his hand and watches her. It's been a while. She looks almost the same, though her coat isn't so much as fitted now as tight. Her lipstick is a bit smeared.

"The Sisterhood?"

Missy holds up a hand, shakes her head. Keeps drinking.

"I've been thinking," Missy says finally, putting her glass down with a clunk. She refills it. "Thinking, thinking."

"Always dangerous," says the Doctor. He finishes his now-cold tea. Pours vodka into the cup instead. Stares at it distastefully.

"Been thinking, drinking, thinking some more. If we had, have, had a baby," Missy purses her lips. "What we would have been done."

The Doctor does drink some of the vodka at that, coughs. "Fine. Indulge me."

"No. No no, not like that," Missy shakes her head. Gestures wildly between the two of them. "Share, share this with me. This idea. Idea. Talk to me. We shared everything else. Remember, remember - "

"I will listen," the Doctor says steadily. "Doesn't mean I'm going to play."

"Remember our baby," says Missy, and her voice breaks, and the Doctor knows she means a different baby from two millennia ago. Missy covers her eyes, mutters what basically amounts to a prayer in Gallifreyan. "My darling. Doctor - "

"Mistress. I remember."

"I think," Missy says, and she takes another drink, stares at him, blinking hard. "This is difficult for me." She stops staring, drinks again. "It would live with you. For the first couple of years, we both would. Newborns. We both know. Nightmare. For everyone involved. Newborn baby, you and me permanently sharing a space. Separate bedrooms so we didn't murder each other. Then, when they can walk and talk and feed themself - " Missy puts her drink down, the liquor slopping over the side. She points at the Doctor with double finger guns. Clicks her tongue. Tries to wink.

He puts his own drink down. One of them needs to be sensible for this.

"They'd live with you. I'll visit," Missy says. "I don't need a kid cramping my style. And you're more of a dad than I ever was. I was a mum. I'd be a mum again. You can't even entertain the concept. I really fucked up this time. I'm. I saw what you said to whatsherface, when you were sleeping," Missy says, tapping her head. "It's true."

"I didn't say - I don't know what you're talking about."

The Doctor looks across at her. Missy shrugs. One tear rolls down her face, and she wipes at it clumsily. Clears her throat.

"Anyway. We could name the baby Lix."

"I'm cutting you off," the Doctor says, taking the near-empty bottle and putting it under his chair. He puts the vodka there too.

Missy takes her glass, drinks. Grimaces. "I liked Lix. She was always patient and nice to me. Great shag, too. Remember, remember the time on that, that weekend with - "

"Missy, don't. Don't."

Missy rests her forehead on her knees, spilling the brandy on the floor. "Lix was a good. Person. She deserved you more than I did. Old you. Current you, nah. You're a hot mess. Not even River deserved that. No wonder she grew apples. An apple a day - "

"I grew the apples, Missy. I had the garden."

The Doctor rescues her glass, puts that under his chair with everything else, finds himself stroking her back. Fast despite her drunkenness, Missy climbs into his lap, shoves her face against his neck. The chair creaks under their shared weight.

"You smell good. Did you go to when I was Prime Minister and fuck me?" Missy slurs. "Class act, you are."

"Well, technically you were the one doing the - yes," the Doctor says, because that's easier. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it was excellent, I assume. I'm good at that. I miss being able to do that."

"I want to have this discussion when you're sober. Or we're both drunk without me playing catch-up, because we both know how that ends."

"I want, I want to have sex with you," Missy says, starts pulling at her skirt. "Let's have sex. Let's fuck. It's not like I can get pregnant again. Perfect time. Sex time."

"Not tonight," says the Doctor, sitting her up straight again. Her head lolls to one side. He pushes it up again, one hand on her face. Makes her look at him. "Not tonight?"

Missy puts her hand over his. "Can I sleep with you?" she asks, eyes searching his face. "Yes? Let's just sleep."

"Yes."

The Doctor half-guides, half-drags Missy down the corridors to his bedroom, drops her onto the mattress. She lifts her legs up, presses one foot against his chest. He tuts, starts unbuttoning her boot.

"I missed you. Was I gone for long?"

He raises his eyebrows. "You really are drunk. A couple of weeks. I've been researching a lot. You know." Pulls off her first shoe, starts on the other one. "Hold still. I haven't found anything that can help us."

"Of course," says Missy, rolling over, one shoe still on. "Of course, a horse is a horse." She kicks her other boot off, wiggles her toes. "Of course, of course." With slow drunken care, she unclips her brooch and holds it out to the Doctor, who takes it. "I love you."

The Doctor puts the brooch on the bedside table, sits Missy up and starts helping her out of her jacket.

"Didn't you hear me?" she says petulantly. "Didn't you - "

"I did, I did," says the Doctor. "Arms up. Bend your elbow. Thank you. And, back over you go."

Missy flops back onto the mattress. "I always will. Don't do the, don't wrinkle it."

"I worry about that," the Doctor says. "What you'll do if you stop."

"I won't stop. Do you lo - "

At this, the Doctor sighs, looks down at her. She stops, covers her face with her hands. Shakes her head. The Doctor takes the opportunity to start unbuttoning her shirt, until Missy bats his hands away. Hides her face again. The Doctor steps back, waits. Checks his watch.

Missy sits up bolt upright, tenses. Jolts. Scrambles off the bed and dives into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The Doctor listens to her noisily throwing up. Kicks his own shoes off and lines them up in his wardrobe, unbuttons his collar. Knocks on the bathroom door.

"You alright?"

He hears Missy spitting.

"Peachy," she groans.

She turns on a tap and he listens to her brushing her teeth, spitting some more. He folds her jacket neatly over the back of his chair. Sits on the edge of the seat and waits.

Missy takes a few more minutes, comes out of the bathroom, pulling her shirt open carelessly. She shucks it and drops it on the floor, crawls into the bed half-dressed. The Doctor quickly gets her skirt off, decides she can sleep in her stockings and underdress, and sits down again. Missy lies on her stomach, shoves her arms under the pillows. Stretches her legs out.

"Aren't you getting in too?" she asks, her voice muffled.

"Eventually," the Doctor says, leaving her skirt on the floor. "I just don't want you asphyxiating on your vomit in your sleep and regenerating next to me."

Missy sits up and glares at him, suddenly sober. "We agreed to never bring that up again on pain of death." Then, the alcohol comes back and her head flops. Missy hikes up her dress and unclips her stockings. Lies back down, smacks her lips. Makes a snuffling noise. "That said, that would solve. All that problems we're having. This one, problem." She hiccups. "You know. The _foetus_."

The Doctor is folding her shirt when he hears Missy sitting up again, sees her head lolling from side to side.

"No," she says faintly. "No, we should name her after her, you know, her. I liked her, but more importantly. More importantly, more importantly I respected her. That one. Come here. She took such good care of us after Arah." She holds up one arm, clenches and unclenches her fist at him. "Come here."

The Doctor gives up, tries to shut his emotions off. It doesn't work. Leaves the jacket, helps Missy lie back down. She clings to his shirt.

"Stay with me," she says, pressing her face into his chest.

He lies down next to her, deciding to wait for her to fall asleep. The Doctor reaches over and switches the light off. She blinks up at him, rolls over so her back is against his chest. The Doctor rubs her arm. At least she's in the recovery position.

"I'd want you around through her whole childhood," the Doctor says quietly. "Not just walking and talking. I'd need you to teach her how to be a Time Lady. I did that last time and I've forgotten all the manners."

"We wouldn't need to teach the manners." Missy says. "That's the beauty of running away. That was the plan. I should, I should've listened to you." She sniffs. "I should have just gone with you and told you you'd knocked me up when we got to Venus or Gretna Green or something. Had Arah offworld." She sniffs again. "You wouldn't have realised I was pregnant till I walked into your room with a damn baby, honestly."

"God, you are so drunk."

"God, I am so hormonal. Fuck-face. And a bit drunk. A bit."

The Doctor raises his eyebrows. "No use worrying about that now. Forget manners. What about the dances?"

"You could show him the dances. I'd teach her basic maths and engineering, you could do physics and the biological sciences."

"And I'd tell her the stories we grew up with," says the Doctor, still rubbing her arm.

"Time baby in exile," Missy whispers.

"And I'd help with the engineering because really. I wouldn't let you teach a kid about weaponry, because damn well you would," the Doctor says, and Missy giggles. "Teaching her history would be brilliant. Remember how we always begged to go on excursions?"

"All the excursions in the universe."

The Doctor sighs. Missy relaxes against him.

"She'd look like you," he says. "Just because it would be rather unfortunate if she looked like me in comparison. You're stunning this time. Apparently. It's infuriating."

"You're so beautiful," says Missy, in the darkness. "It's wonderful. Please touch me."

The Doctor keeps stroking her arm, cupping her bony elbow. "I am touching you."

"Have you missed me?"

"Yes. I was getting worried."

"Touch me properly."

"No. No, you're far too drunk. We'd take her to all kinds of green planets, all the wild ones where you can run around and yell your lungs out and meet with the locals."

"Mmm."

"And if she wanted to meet kids who looked her age - "

"Earth?"

"You're the one who suggested it," the Doctor says. "But yeah, Earth. So she could at least play with someone. On one of those plastic playground where they paint everything primary colours. They've got these spinny things. Kids love them until they're throwing up in the car on the way home."

"It's not nice not, hang on. It's not nice being lonely," says Missy sleepily. "Alone is one thing." She hiccups again. "Lonely is just another thing. I'm alone, a lot, but I'm not always lonely."

The Doctor stops stroking her arm, studies the side of her face in the dark.

"Don't look at me like that." Missy rolls over so her face is pressed into his chest again. She snakes her arm around his neck. "You were such a great dad. It would be nice to see that one more time. Woulda been swell."

"Well, we're not going to."

Holding Missy against him, the Doctor sits up, tugs the blankets up. Missy slides her hand between the gaps of his shirt buttons, fans her fingers out on his chest. They lie down again, warm under the covers. The Doctor pauses.

"Will you be sick again?" he asks.

"Nuh, I don't think so."

"I only need to worry when you say, 'I'll be fine,'" says the Doctor. He presses a kiss to her forehead and Missy sighs contentedly. "Would we have spoken in Gallifreyan?"

"Yeah. The important Gallifreyans until she was fluent, then we'll start him in Fuzrodefian," Missy says, tripping over the syllables. "You can't depend on the translation matrix for that tongue twister. And then French."

"Why French?"

"I love French," says Missy. "It's just fun to speak. It buzzes my mouth." She starts making buzzing noises and the Doctor laughs. She sighs into his skin. "Take her swimming on Kanamah. I love how warm the water is there. The whole place is one big bath. Teach him to drive your TARDIS, because she sure as hell wouldn't be allowed to touch mine. Touch me."

The Doctor tightens his arm around her. It's probably his imagination, but she feels bigger. "This is a classic model. You've said so yourself."

"Will I remember saying this in the morning?"

The Doctor shrugs. Missy undoes the first couple of buttons on his shirt. Presses kisses to his bare chest. Leans there, her nose pressed into his skin.

"You smell good," she says. Kisses him again. "Really good. I love you."

"I hope you remember saying all this," says the Doctor. "If not, hopefully I'll have the guts to remind you."

"Your brother would have wanted to meet her," she says sleepily. "You're a great dad. He's an above-average uncle. For a Time Dudey. Person. Gallifreyanan. Any other planets? Shit. Well, not Skaro."

"No talking about my brother when we're in bed," the Doctor says. "Hey. Don't put your hand down there. I said, _don't_."

"Can we have sex?"

"In the morning."

"I'll be too sick in the morning."

The Doctor kisses her on the head and Missy makes a happy noise. "That's the plan, my dear Mistress."

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Missy mumbles. "Do you love me? You never say it back. You _never_ say it."

"Yes," the Doctor decides. He strokes her hair back. "I do love you, Missy. I just don't know how or why."

"Because you've always loved me. It's habit forming," Missy says, and he's fairly certain she's drooling on his chest. "Best friend. Partner in crime. Father of my children. And what do we have to show for it? Where are our children, Doctor? Where are your children?"

The Doctor's eyes sting, and he covers them with his free hand. Swallows hard. "Just, go to sleep, okay?"

"You're thinking too loud. You go to sleep. Shh. Close your eyes," she sings, like she had on Qongsungan.

"What song is that?" The Doctor clears his throat, sniffs.

Missy reaches up, clumsily strokes his face. Her fingers come away wet. She brushes her fingers over his cheek again, wipes them on his shirt. Reaches down and grabs his hand, holds it between her hearts.

"Shhhh," Missy says. "Sleep tight, beautiful. Shh, shh. Oh my Doctor. It's okay, you can cry. We're right here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far, and all your lovely comments! Nearly at the end!


	12. once upon a time in german-occupied france

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and we've come full circle, only in reverse.

_We met at the wrong time. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. Maybe one day years from now, we’ll meet in a coffee shop in a far away city somewhere and we could give it another shot. —Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)_

 

*** * ***

 

Missy throwing up, wakes him up. The Doctor sits, looks towards the bathroom door, his head swimming and his eyes sore. Sighs. Rubs his gritty eyes. Waits for her to finish.

"Is that hangover sick or morning sickness sick?" he calls.

Missy spits. Chokes. Retches. Throws up again.

He swings his legs out of bed, stands, pads over to the bathroom and twists her hair up on top of her head, fastening it with a hairtie. He pauses. Rests his hands on her shoulders, massages them gently.

"Piss off," says Missy, leaning over the toilet again, waving him off. "Do something that actually helps."

"Righto," the Doctor says, shutting the door behind him.

He heads into the console room, takes the TARDIS off Luwanar and lands it on the moors of the Eye of Orion. Shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders back up to one of the kitchens. Boils the kettle, determinedly not letting himself think about anything. He's frying eggs when Missy comes into the room, pale.

"Hey, Missy, " he begins. "I was wondering - "

"Nope," Missy says, claps her hand over her mouth. Does a 180 degree turn and runs off to the bathroom.

The Doctor looks after her. Looks back at the eggs. Keeps cooking, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

Missy comes back when he's nearly done eating. She looks around the kitchen, wipes a bit of sweat off her face. The Doctor points with his fork.

"There's bacon too. In the fridge," he says. "Mustard's there too."

She ignores him, takes the buttered toast off her plate and sits opposite him, chewing intently. He waits for her to finish one triangle.

"I feel like I've been living in bed, the past few days," he says awkwardly. Missy nods. "You haven't found anything or anyone to help, have you," the Doctor continues. "I haven't either. Only the Time Lords will be able to help."

Missy nods. Keeps chewing. Dunks the toast in her juice. Takes another bite. Munches away and then swallows. Coughs.

"Landed on Karn to check out the Sisterhood," she says. "Right next to a Time Lord outpost. A good-sized one, cloaked and shielded and very not happy to see me. They're. Involved. Heavily, like you said," she says. "That was our last option. I'd rather die than go back to Gallifrey. And I will die, if I go back to Gallifrey. So. Gallifrey is not an option."

"So that's what last night was about, then?" the Doctor asks. "Time Lords got you down?"

"Hot bath and a bottle of gin," Missy says, pursing her lips. "Which turned into a bunch of drinks at some speakeasy. I think I sang _All That Jazz_. And I missed you, I missed you so much I thought I was dying. I'm disgustingly clingy. Hormones." She shudders, picks crumbs out of her glass, takes a sip of juice. "Where are we?" She uses the Gallifreyan slang 'where' pronoun again, meaning time and place and local location.

"Cycle 30, on the Eye of Orion," the Doctor says, and Missy nods approvingly. Gets up to rinse his plate in the sink. "Well. You told me to do something useful."

"Mm."

The Doctor dries the plate, starts to walk over to the cupboard. Missy twists in her seat, watches him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

"By the way. I remember what I did last night," Missy says quietly, and doesn't jump when the Doctor drops the plate. It shatters all over the floor. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm not okay, Missy," the Doctor says, picking up shards of porcelain. One cuts into his fingertip and he swears. "I'm not going to be okay until we've dealt with this and my - you, we, you are no longer - "

"Pregnant. Oh, just leave it," Missy stands and brushes past him, finds the dustpan in the pantry and hands it to the Doctor. She rubs her forehead, closes her eyes. Sits down heavily and watches the Doctor cleaning the plate up. "There's a metaphor in here somewhere," she says. "Why didn't you study harder at biology at the Academy? You could've been a real doctor."

"Why didn't _you_?" the Doctor snaps. "You could have learnt to save people, instead of trying to kill them all the time."

The Doctor gets up, dumps the shards in the waste chute, puts the dustpan and brush away. Sits opposite Missy again, cupping his chin in his hands.

"Let's go sit outside," he says finally. "I think we should both get some of those positive ions. Go for a walk."

"I just threw up for twenty minutes," Missy says. "That's a stomach workout and a half. I'm not walking anywhere."

"Fine. I've got some deckchairs around here somewhere."

"No. No, go for your walk. I'll find the chairs."

"You shouldn't be lifting anything while you're - "

It's Missy's turn to slam her hand down on the table. The cutlery and crockery rattle. "I'm also not meant to drink. Go. Walk. Breathe. Before I do something I'll regret."

 

The Eye of Orion is pleasantly cold, the air chilling his lungs as he strides across the slopes. He managed to land the TARDIS in an area where the gradient is easy. The grass crunches under his boots and the Doctor focuses on that noise, counts his steps. Gets to 3,141 before he looks up properly, finds he's clambered up a hill. The Doctor pauses at the summit, looks around. The dark rolling hills spread out around him, gunmetal grey, dotted with darker grey ruins. Occasional dark green flowers grow here and there, clear against all the dark earth and grass.

He can see the TARDIS, and Missy draped over her deckchair, combing through one of the last books the TARDIS had found. As he watches, she gives up and tosses it back into the console room. He takes a moment. Looks at his feet. When he looks back up, Missy has taken her seat again and sits leafing through her notebook, her other hand on her stomach.

The Doctor clears his throat. Starts heading back. It doesn't take too long. 3, 110 steps, to be precise.

He sits in his own chair, covers his legs with his blanket, realises he forgot his book, shrugs. He looks out across the mists of the Eye of Orion, takes a deep breath, lets it out.

"This is disgustingly domestic," says Missy, gazing into the distance. "It's cold."

"I'll get you another blanket."

Missy reaches over, takes his hand. He can feel one of her rings; it's warm against his skin.

"No, I'm okay. It's refreshing."

"I don't want you getting - "

Missy brings his hand to her mouth, presses her lips to each of his knuckles. "Stay with me," she says, and he does. Keeps holding his hand. "Doctor. Tell me how you're feeling. We know all about how I'm feeling."

"I," the Doctor begins. "No, Missy."

He waits for the inevitable sigh, the eye-roll. Missy squeezes his hand instead.

"I want this to be over, and then it'll all go back to the way it was, and then I'll be fine," Missy says, taking her reading glasses off. "You do tend to dwell."

"I don't dwell."

"You dwell or you repress, Mr I-Built-A-Handily-Portable-Machine-To-Override-Perception-Filters-To-Find-A-Woman-Who-May-Not-Have-Wanted-To-Ever-Speak-To-Me-Again, I who named myself Time Lord Victorious rather than see a therapist about my abundantly clear PTSD, My Lord Doctor of Lungbarrow who still thinks he can heal me, Lady Mistress of Oakdown, into something resembling a sane, kind - "

" _Missy_. I gave up on that long enough ago."

The Doctor looks at her, and she meets his gaze steadily. Her eyes are so blue this time.

"Focus," she says. "It's just me. You can trust me with this at least."

"I feel like I've been a father so many times, and every time," he breathes out heavily. "It never ends well. In that, it ends. This just seems - I thought it would be easier if it ended before it could even start. It's dredging everything up, the war, the peace, before I left Gallifrey. I've always - let my children down. Six times over. But." The Doctor covers his mouth with his free hand for a second, squeezes his eyes shut. "They go to war, or war comes to us, or water, and now. This. Of all my failures, this is - top ten."

"Maybe even top five," Missy quips. The Doctor glares at her, and her expression softens. "You were a wonderful father. I loved you so much for that. Even after you left."

"It doesn't feel that way," the Doctor says, after a moment. "You're confused about something," he adds.

"Yes. I am." Missy sets her jaw. "You've only had five children. Two with me, now, if this is how you're counting it. Three with Lix."

"There was - a clone. It's. Jenny. Her name was Jenny. She died, too. In a different war."

The Doctor grips Missy's hand until it must hurt her. She squeezes back.

He says, "this isn't how it's meant to go. Parents without children. What are we?"

"We're still - parents," says Missy slowly. "On Gallifrey. We're still filed as that. Presumably."

"I know that," the Doctor says. "I have a feeling I know exactly why you know that as well. My brother?"

Missy raises her eyebrows at him. "He came by a few days after you moved in with Lix. Explained all the legalities, while I was shouting at him." She moves her head from side to side. "I have a feeling he actually visited to make sure I was eating, but them's the breaks."

"You asked me to leave." The Doctor doesn't know why he's still feeling offended. It's been millennia.

"And look how that worked out," says Missy flatly.

The Doctor nods, blinks hard. "Sometimes, the humans I meet, they point out I sound like a dad, or ask, ask me. If I am, and I am, I am, I am. But all my children. Missy. All my babies, they're all gone. What kind of father am I?"

"My Doctor. My dear Doctor," Missy says quietly, sounding clear and awake for the first time in days. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"About the wars. About your kids. About ours. What's on your mind?"

"You never talk about your war."

"I have. Tell me about yours."

The Doctor opens his mouth. Closes it. Missy nods.

"Romana, sent me a message. In my Eighth body. I was on Sansouccian with Grace, showing her those singing trees - "

"God. Grace. I didn't like that one. Though, I love those singing trees."

"Everyone loves the singing trees. Did you know - "

"Me dear Doctor. The _war_. Tell me about it."

He does, slowly. Skirts around their current issue, focuses on what has come before. The second sun rises. They fall silent and watch it.

Eventually Missy dozes in her chair, warmed by the sun's rays. The Doctor brings out his notebook, flips through the pages of equations and scribbles and sketches. Sees a half-done sketch of Clara, captioned in Gallifreyan, though the pencil is too smudged to make out. He gives up, puts it back in his pocket. Gets the book out again. Missy wakes with a start.

"Something's wrong," she says strangely, and the Doctor looks at her, hearts lurching. "No no, no, not. It. We're fine," and she runs one hand over her stomach. "What's with you?"

"Found a picture of Clara, I suppose," he says. Holds up his notebook, hands it to her. "I'm fine."

Missy flicks through the pages until she finds the sketch, squints at his writing. Puts her glasses back on.

"I don't know what I said there," the Doctor says. "It's all messed up."

"That doesn't look like your handwriting," says Missy. She holds the book up to the light. "You don't flick the tails on your anterior crosses. See? These are all flicked."

"I used to. I think I know my own handwriting. Don't pick at them, Missy."

"Don't pick at _it_ ," she says, but sighs and gives the book back regardless. "Speaking of. Brax used to write like that." She sees him looking at her strangely. "Oh, I only remember because I framed one of the letters he wrote me telling us two to hurry up and get married and then I gave it to your mother. Built the frame with my own two hands, polished the glass, everything. I practically had it memorised by the time I was finished."

The Doctor is shocked to find himself laughing.

"Dearest Sister-In-Common-Law, my Lady Koschei of Oakdown and Nebulously also of Lungbarrow, " Missy recites, and the Doctor laughs harder. "Salutations and Felicitations on your continued connections to my dearest brother, Lord Theta of being a giant Loser - or something like that," she says, and laughs too.

It takes the Doctor a few minutes to stop chuckling, and he catches his breath.

"She took it down after the party. Knew how it upset you sometimes, Brax getting on our backs like that. I liked your mother well enough," Missy says. "I respected her. That day though, when I walked into the foyer and saw that letter hanging, pride of place along with the lineage charts and your certificates - " she snorts. "I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself."

"When was this?"

"Brax's engagement party, take two. The one where he found me eating mustard in the cupboard, and you just standing there with your tea like it was nothing. Like it was a perfectly normal day." Missy claps her hands. Breathes out. "Remember his face when we told him what was wrong with me? Remember when - " the smile on her face fades, but she forces it up again. "Actually, remember how my parents reacted? Oh, they were not happy. They were not pleased with my choices in life."

The Doctor laughs again, because it's easier than crying.

"Mustard. Which I am now craving, intensely. This is awful. This is so, so awful. And so the question is - "

"What now," the Doctor says.

"I refuse to believe we're out of options," Missy says. "It's a big wide universe."

"That you destroyed one-third of," says the Doctor, and swallows down the strangely hopeful thought that pops up. "Missy, what if - "

"No. No."

"You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"My dear Doctor. In this case, I do."

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor loses track of time while playing guitar to himself and thinks she has gone, until he finds Missy in the bath, the big claw-footed one in the oak-panelled bathroom. Steam clouds the mirror; the whole room smells of flowers. She's poking her toes through the bubbles, examining them. The polish is all chipped. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, a few strands curling down around her face. Dipping his fingers below the surface, the Doctor checks the temperature, grabs her ankle. Missy rotates it in his grip and wiggles her toes at him. Her skin glistens.

"It's nice," says Missy.

"It's nice," the Doctor says. Pulls his cardigan off. "You don't mind?"

"Not at all," Missy says, moving her legs up to her chest.

Her knees are covered in bubbles. She half-watches him get undressed, biting the end of her finger. He slips into the water carefully, and Missy pulls him over, brackets him between her legs. With a sigh, the Doctor leans against her chest, lets his head loll back onto her shoulder. Missy presses her lips to his exposed throat, runs her damp fingers through his hair until his eyes slide shut.

The tap drips, echoes around the bathroom. Steam curls off the water. Missy draws slow shapes in the bubbles, her fingers getting coated in white foam. It smells like something citrusy. Distantly, the TARDIS creaks and settles. The Doctor breaks first.

"Would you like to get dinner later?"

"There's an awful lot of tension here for such a simple question."

The Doctor turns his head so he's pressing his face into her neck. His eyelashes tickle her skin.

"Maybe you should meet up with one of your humans, instead. See one of them."

The Doctor frowns. "Excuse me?"

"And you've been cooped up in here with me, with your thoughts, for days. Bad influence. Lahni, or ugh. Martha. Maybe you should track down River."

She feels him take a small breath - a hidden gasp - against her damp neck, turns to look at her.

" _You_ , want _me_ , to go find River Song. My _wife_."

"Relax," Missy says, and the Doctor settles again, head on her shoulder. "I just need her to hold the fort, make sure you're not going to do bad things like - refusing to rescue cats up trees, making people watch cricket - "

"Jaywalking."

Missy laughs softly, draws her legs up so her knees are poking out of the water on either side of him. She finds a purple flannel in the water, draws it up and wrings it out. There's some kind of lavender-scented lotion in a bottle on the side of the tub. She pours this on the flannel, rubs it across his chest in slow circles, humming.

"She knows about us," the Doctor says. "I told her. Well, knew."

"I know." Missy keeps humming. "As long as she knows I got here first. And I'll be here last."

"Not about - all the gory details. I wouldn't have told her about this."

"Wouldn't.Past negative tense."

"I don't think I'll ever see River again, not with her knowing who I am. We had our time. She didn't recognise my face at first. Any additions to the timeline - I can't see them fitting. You never know, though."

Missy dips the flannel back in the water, drips the lotion on his back. Runs the flannel through it across his neck, down his spine. The smell of lavender fills his nose. The Doctor lowers his head, continues.

"She went straight to the library on the last day. No tears. Brave, till the end. I miss her."

Behind him, Missy tenses. The Doctor leans back and blows cool air against her neck. Goosebumps rise.

"No. I wouldn't have told her about this," he says. "Everything that just happened. This is." The Doctor makes a gesture. "All ours. Good and bad. That said. I'll never trust you again, after Clara. I trust you to keep three secrets now, and I only think you'll keep them because they're your secrets too. You keep them because they can be used to hurt you. They show you once loved two things in the universe, and now you love one of them and controlling the universe itself."

He feels Missy stop moving again. She rests her forehead against his left shoulder. He feels her breathing against him. With wet hands, she trails her fingers through his hair, presses her mouth against his shoulder. She wraps one arm around his chest, the other about his waist. Holds him tight for a few minutes.

"I don't know if I deserve you, sometimes," Missy says quietly, then loosens her grip and straightens up.

She dips the flannel back into the water, starts working it across his shoulders, down his arms. The Doctor's eyes close again. Missy sings under her breath, words of another alien language too quiet for him to discern. The tap keeps dripping. 

"I think we deserve each other," he replies finally. "I do a lot of bad things. Usually your absence precludes them. Or Gallifrey's."

"So does that make me a good influence then?"

"It makes you a bedrock," the Doctor says, opening his eyes, cricking his neck to meet her gaze briefly. "Stability notwithstanding. Did I tell you, I knew it was you? I've always meant to say that, and I always forget."

Missy drops the flannel, watches it sink. Settling lower in the bath, Missy holds her arms around the base of his ribcage and presses her face into his back. She pokes his sides with her nails.

"What, when we were ninety, or in the 1970s when you were in exile, or - "

"At the end of the universe. Martha told me Professor Yana had a watch, and," the Doctor runs a hand along her calf, invisible under the bubbles. "I mean, who else would it be? Who else could have pulled that off? The Rani? Hm. She's coming up a lot today."

Missy opens her mouth.

"Actually, let's not talk about the Rani while we're naked. My sex drive is low enough as it is."

Missy shuts her mouth.

"I just knew it was you. You always survive, and just. Who else would it be? Who else could it be?"

"Who else could have ended the Time War?" Missy whispers, tilts his head, presses her lips to his temple. "Now. Bringing back Gallifrey on the other hand, I do have some customer feedback on that, and it's not all good."

"I feel the same, as you know."

The Doctor slides down the other end of the bath, bubbles and water sloshing about. Missy slides forward, turns the warm tap on. She sticks her big toe under the stream of water, watching the flesh slowly turn pink, eyebrows furrowed. The Doctor waits, then reaches over and turns it off. Most of the bubbles have dispersed.

They both settle at opposite ends of the tub, facing each other. Missy presses their feet together. Cups some water in her hands and washes her face. Blinking away the water, she studies his expression.

"Honey," Missy says.

" _Koschei_ ," says the Doctor, mimicking her tone. Even so, Missy's eyes soften, and it makes his hearts hurt. He remembers why he so rarely calls her that. "Sorry."

The tap drips. A few minutes pass.

"You've got family on the brain," says Missy.

"I do," the Doctor says. He gestures at both of them. "Obvious reasons. You know, I don't even know if my brother is alive."

"Brax on the brain. An unfortunate condition. We've been talking about him a lot lately, I wonder why he's on your mind." Missy pops her lips. The sound echoes around the bathroom. "He visited me. In prison. Car-din-al Braxiatel."

"You lie."

"I do not, at least once. I probably blotted the others out, Brax is just so annoying." Missy reaches up, undoes her messy bun. Her hair falls around her face, the ends dangling in the water.

"It wasn't sentiment. It's never sentiment, with us, which I appreciate. He was there to bring me out of my state, which didn't work. I was not well, I was not well at all." Missy clenches her jaw. "They sent a few people I knew, before I was exiled, trying to bring me out of - well. Brax, one of my second cousins, even Borusa. They were all so different, from the fighting, from the violence. Didn't help. I mean, this was _peak_ psychosis, you saw me when I attacked Rassilon. Not even you could help me, not really." She holds onto the sides of the tub, slides underwater without another word.

The Doctor rests his fingers against her toes, taps out twenty seconds, thirty. Forty. Missy reemerges, blinking water from her eyes, brushing her hair back off her forehead. She spits out a mouthful of water.

"I wasn't well. They made me work. I worked, I still wasn't well. Braxiatel, though, he had me put in a better cell, the one next to the voice. I think he was just pleased I got Rassilon out of the way. He asked me about you. You were one of his main concerns."

"What did you tell him?"

Missy slides underwater again. The Doctor counts, watches her hair waving under the water like seaweed. Forty-five seconds. She sits up.

"That you were alive," she says, squeezing out her hair, water dripping from her eyelashes. "That you had the same old TARDIS. That you were very sad."

"I never told you I was sad."

Missy gives him a look. "I was mad, not senseless, my darling. But you were alive, and he was happy with that. He's one of the few people in the universe who gets that deep down, I really do have your best interests at heart. Don't laugh. Even if you don't see them as such. Happy?"

"Contented," the Doctor supplies.

"Satisfied. I don't know if he's alive now, of course. Huh," Missy blinks, shakes herself. "Your brother has the same effect on my libido as the Rani. Poof, gone. Some things never change."

The Doctor finds himself smiling at the thought. "He's probably ticked off with me again already. Still. At least it'll be familiar, if I ever see him again. I hope I do. Don't tell him I said that. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Missy tilts her head to one side, chewing on the end of her thumb. "You're so cute this time."

"I'm not cute."

"You're adorable. Grumpypants."

"You're hormonal. I'm not wearing pants."

"You're - "

"I'm the reluctant President in exile of Gallifrey. Or something. We're war veterans. We've both killed people. I'm not cute. Missy."

Missy splashes him, turns and slides down the bath, water slopping over the edge of the tub. She settles herself between his legs, presses her back to his chest. Her hair tickles his nose. The Doctor kisses behind her ear, down her neck. Finds the flannel. Puts it over Missy's face.

"Yuck," she says, and starts laughing.

The Doctor takes it off, dips it in the water, trickles it down her back. "We're getting really pruney," he says.

"You need all the water you can get. You should moisturise," Missy says.

The Doctor runs the flannel over her chest, lifts one of her arms and runs it down to her thin wrist. Wordlessly, Missy lifts her other arm and the Doctor does the same again. He does each of her fingers individually, is about to start on her legs when Missy starts fidgeting. She takes the flannel, wrings it out, lobs it into the laundry basket. She settles against his chest, grabs his hands and wraps them round her middle. The Doctor takes it as his cue to relax, and does so. Presses his nose against the side of her head, feels the curve of her jaw, the bones of her skull. His hands move from her ribs to the blades of her hips. Missy tilts her head, presses the side of her face against his, closes her eyes.

"I don't know what we're going to do," she mumbles. "What are we going to do?"

The Doctor wraps one arm around her chest, puts his other hand on her thigh. Stays silent.

"Lunch," he says eventually, and Missy leans against him. "We need to get out of the TARDIS, and you need to eat something decent."

"Five more minutes," she says.

They take ten.

 

*** * ***

 

_once upon a time in german-occupied france._

 

 

The Doctor steps out of the TARDIS, straightens his coat. Glances around. Takes a deep breath. Missy pushes out from behind him.

"Oh. France. Well, it's not Verdun yet," she says, looking at the sky. "Wait, it's the day before. Lovely. What a great time to bring a pregnant woman."

"Plenty of time," says the Doctor, locking the TARDIS. "Come on. We'll be out of here before it starts."

He offers Missy his arm and they come out of the alley, find themselves on the street of a small French village. The streets are muddy and devoid of people, and half the shops are shut.

"Not the restaurants, I hope," says Missy, peering through the window of a butcher. "Well, he's open, if you feel like eating ham for once."

The Doctor tugs her along, checks the deserted street and they cross it quickly, their shoes getting covered in mud.

"In here," he says, and holds open the door to the restaurant they visited in 1942. Warmth comes from the interior, and the sound of music.

Missy dips a little curtsy at him, and he follows her inside.

The restaurant is more ramshackle than it was in 1942, with less tables and bare floorboards, but there are cleanly washed, carefully pressed lace curtains in the windows and three old men playing violin, drums and piano in the corner. It's not all bad. Half a dozen locals - none of them young or middle-aged men - are scattered about the tables, sharing food or reading newspapers alone. They ignore him and Missy.

"'S nice," Missy says, sitting down by the window. She pushes his chair out with her foot. Waits.

The Doctor crosses to the small counter and asks the young girl - she can't be more than eleven or twelve - sitting behind it, to bring them whatever was best. The girl has gap teeth and wavy black hair, pinned back neatly.

"And a chess set," says the Doctor. "Do you have a chessboard? Or a pack of cards?"

"My name is Marie," says the girl, raising her eyebrows at him, and the Doctor balks, apologises. "My mother just finished making harricots-beurre, is that alright?"

"Yes. Thank you," the Doctor adds.

"And I have a chess set."

Marie turns and takes a box off one of the shelves behind her. Puts it on the counter, opens the lid to reveal a small, wooden chess set. Half the pieces - white - are made from pale ash wood, while the black side is from dark polished oak.

"My father made it," she tells the Doctor, and her expression tells him everything else. "He only finished the black side before he had to go away."

"It's beautiful," he says, picking up one of the pawns. "He is a good craftsman."

Marie nods. "I will bring your food over to you. Would you like tea as well?"

"Yes. Please."

The Doctor thanks her again and brings the box over to the table. Sets it up in front of Missy who watches him with some bemusement. He straightens the board carefully, turns it so he's playing white. Straightens it again. Moves the first pawn. Looks at her expectantly.

"How are we going to deal with our issue?" Missy asks finally.

The Doctor points at the board. She moves a piece as well, rests her elbows on the table and props her chin on her hands.

"Apparently we're not talking now. I've finally shocked and appalled you into silence," Missy watches him. He doesn't react. "Much as I dreamt of this for many years, right now it's not very useful."

The Doctor shifts his knight, nods with satisfaction.

"Food?"

"Coming," says the Doctor. "Your turn. Go on."

Missy quirks her eyebrows at him, moves another pawn. They play in silence for a few minutes until Marie brings over the food, with hunks of black bread, and then a small chipped pot of tea. Two mismatched mugs. Missy thanks her before the Doctor can even look up.

"Are we really not going to discuss this?" Missy asks, when they're alone again. "Doctor. It's very much a - time-sensitive issue, here."

"You're not going to go into labour before dessert. Not for what, fourteen months? We've been going in circles," the Doctor says, tearing up his bread and sopping a small piece in his bowl. Pops it in his mouth, chews. Swallows. "Doesn't mean we have to go in circles while we're hungry."

Missy examines the queen from the black side of the board. Nods her head in time with the men playing in the corner. Puts the queen back down, moves another pawn a space.

"Etruscan gender theory," she says, and the Doctor laughs, pours her a cup of tea. "Do you think humans will ever figure out that the Illuminati was founded by Neptunians on a bet to slowly enslave the world through manipulating the elites of humanity?"

The Doctor shrugs. "If they didn't notice the sub-stratospheric battle with the Illuminati over New Mexico in the 1950s, I doubt they shall. I don't think they end up enslaving the world though. I feel like I would have noticed that."

"Or did they?" Missy hums the X-Files theme. "No. You're right. The real question is. Opus Dei. Was that you?"

"I thought it was you. Eat, Missy. Come on. I want to go for a walk afterwards."

Missy takes a meaningful look at the clock in the corner. The Doctor pushes her bowl towards her.

"Fine," she says. Picks up her spoon. "Fine, fine, fine. Would be nice to see this village while it's still here."

 

The streets are deserted and they cut across one of the muddy farm fields, where the hedges are beginning to grow over the fences. The Doctor helps Missy over the stile and they make their way into the thickly overgrown forest. Follow the river through the trees and the clearing until they come across a large gap between trees where the grass grows long and thick and brambles tangle the trees around the edge. There's some wildflowers - daisies, a few dandelions. Poppies. Occasionally they hear one or two bombs going off in the distance.

"You know, a couple of shells wouldn't go amiss here," says Missy, glancing around.

"We're far enough from Verdun - the war won't really hit this village until 1917." The Doctor shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks around at some of the vines. Picks up a small rock on the ground, drops it. It leaves traces of mud on his fingers, which he wipes off with his handkerchief.

Missy sits primly on the ground and looks up at him expectantly. The Doctor shrugs his shoulders, feeling his nerve failing him.

Finally, Missy stands again.

"Go on, beautiful," she says.

"Hm," the Doctor replies, looking around at the woods.

"You know no one can see us, right?" Missy says, crossing the clearing. "No one's watching."

She takes his hand, raises it to her mouth and presses her lips to his palm. Lets go. The Doctor leaves his hand there for a moment, feeling her breath on his skin. Trails his fingers down her front. Pokes her belly button. Missy takes his hand again.

"Say what you came to say," she says.

"You won't listen," says the Doctor.

"Where do we go from here?" Missy asks. "I'm not going to change. You're not going to change. We both know that. So. What happens now?"

The Doctor studies the bark of the tree nearest to him. It's got some kind of pale green moss growing on the trunk. It glistens with dew. Missy pulls on his arm lightly, swings it. He hasn't let himself actively think about this concept, just let it bubble away at the back of his mind.

"We could keep it," he says finally, hearts pounding. "I think we could, when it's like this. Actually consider this, Missy."

Missy giggles, shocked. "I'm sorry?"

"It's like corsets and shaving," the Doctor says slowly, still looking at the moss. He turns to face Missy, who still holds loosely to his hand.

"Spoken like someone who's never worn a corset."

"I don't like sex," the Doctor blurts out, shaking off Missy and striding to the other side of the clearing. He kicks a pebble into the stream. "Well, I do. But it's more - "

"When you get started, you enjoy yourself," Missy prompts.

The Doctor points at her, nods. "When we started, making love in Fra - stop pulling that face, Missy, this is a serious proposal - "

"I hate that term, I - you hate it too."

"Fine. When we were shagging in France. In Thomas Jefferson's house, in France."

"I remember it well," says Missy, folding her arms.

"I shaved, when we got back to the TARDIS. Because you had a rash, on your - " the Doctor gestures. "And I knew we'd be doing it again, because it's like Pringles with us, and I didn't even think about it really."

Missy keeps staring at him. "Where are you going with this, dear?"

The Doctor studies her for a moment, the way her updo is coming loose, the clearly shaky way she'd applied her makeup. The way her coat's buttons are working overtime. Yet. "You stopped wearing corsets. Why?"

Tutting, Missy gestures at her chest. "They were growing. It was obvious either way, but I looked like a Mills and Boon cover with the corset on. You're not observant - "

"Why did you stop smoking though?" the Doctor asks. "You quit drinking too, except that one night after the Sisterhood. You weren't drinking in Russia. You knew you were pregnant in Russia. If you were always planning on getting rid of it, why would you take care like that?"

The only sound is the river. Distantly the Doctor imagines he can hear shelling. Missy pauses, her mouth hanging slightly open.

"You must have stopped smoking when you were just suspecting," the Doctor says slowly, remembering Missy putting away her cigarettes on Ohamar. "Did you even realise?"

"I…" she says. She looks at her feet. Runs her hands over her now-strained coat front. "I didn't really think about it. I just did it."

"I also don't get why you don't go up a coat size," the Doctor says, pointing. "It's not like you haven't got your pick of tailors."

"I'm still in denial," says Missy smoothly.

She goes back to staring into space. Turns to look through the forest, covers her mouth with her hand.

"You stopped smoking and drinking, and you discarded your corsets when you probably just could have found another style - Missy, what if - "

She shakes her head. The Doctor changes tack.

"How much do you remember of that night you got drunk?" the Doctor asks. "After you had to run from the Sisterhood?"

" _You_. I remember, you were distressed. Very distressed, and I was worried about you," Missy says. "I kept - I was thinking about, um, um," and her voice wobbles. The Doctor nods at her, and Missy forges on. "Arah, I talked about her. I talked about Arah. I was so drunk, because I hadn't been drinking in ages."

"We had a whole conversation, Missy, about raising a baby off-world. You had half of it worked out already. And your placement and tense words were all over the place. Had, have, could, will, should. It was like you were mixing up what you thought was our only option, and what you actually _wanted_. What we both could want."

Missy waves a hand. "Contingencies, kiddo. Or maybe, again. Arah. I spent centuries thinking of ways I could get out of, change the timeline so I could save - fuck. I would have torn down the stars to change things." Missy pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket. Twists it between her fingers. Grits her teeth and blinks hard. "Ugh."

"You cried."

"Piss off."

"So did I. Missy." The Doctor crosses the clearing, grabs her shoulder. Turns her around.

Missy meets his gaze directly. "I don't want to be pregnant," she says.

"I know that. But do you want this baby?"

She wavers beneath him.

"Missy, what - what if we kept it?"

"What if we what?"

"What if we had this baby. Missy."

"I'm sorry? Have you completely lost your mind?" Missy says. "I'm always on you about teaming up on a TARDIS, until this - agreement, and then - it's never worked for us, and it - hasn't worked, this time."

"Has it not worked?" he asks. "I mean, it's not been too crash-hot lately, but Missy. That was Clara. Clara is - gone, she died. She's gone. I need to find a way to get around that, yes. But it was working. It's working, even now. We spend time together now and no one gets hurt. We talk now. We argue, yeah, but no one dies, and we try and fix it rather than just letting it fester. We _talk_ , and _no one dies_ , and you helped me on Earth, Missy, and I think I fell a bit more in love with you the day you did that, and we talk about her, we've never talked about her since we both left home - "

Missy looks up at him. Squares her jaw, despite the tears in her eyes. "Say her name. You never say it."

There _is_ bombing in the background. It stops.

"Arah," the Doctor says, and Missy closes her eyes. "Our daughter's name was Arah."

Missy stays very still.

"Now," says the Doctor eventually, and then they both duck as a bomb goes off, slightly closer. The Doctor shakes himself. "Missy. I'm not talking about shacking up in a TARDIS and hoping for the best. We'll get a house, on some uncharted planet - "

"You can't get houses on uncharted planets. They're _uncharted_." Missy pauses. "Well. Bakoodle does do those flatpack just-add-water deals, but I've always preferred Ikea for that kind of thing - and you're still angry at me about Clara - "

" _Listen_ ," says the Doctor, and Missy leans against a tree, gestures at him to go on. "I'm getting ahead of myself. If you work with me on this, I can - I can see myself forgiving you for that. This has always been our problem. You go on, creating chaos and destroying and conquering, and I run around exploring, or stopping you, and we'll never change because it's us, it's only us, all alone and there's no reward, no light at the end of the tunnel. Changing doesn't work because one of us would be so fundamentally altered as to be unrecognisable."

"You want to use this baby as a bargaining chip," Missy says flatly. Holds her hands over her middle. "Maybe I have been influencing you - "

"No. No, not like that," says the Doctor. "It wouldn't be a permanent attempt at change. We both seem to want this baby, even if that's hard to admit. We have it, off world. We have our kid, and we - " his hearts are pounding. "And we raise them, and when they're old enough, they can decide if they want to go to Gallifrey, if Gallifrey has healed by then, or travel with one of us, or both of us, or we could grow them a TARDIS in the interim because dammit, Peya didn't leave the house till she was about 140, and - "

"So it's. A truce," Missy says. "Not the one you suggested. Slightly longer."

The Doctor tilts his head from side to side. "A ceasefire. A pause. Perhaps our equilibrium will change. Perhaps it won't. Perhaps having a piece of you and me out in the universe will make you protect it. Perhaps it will make me more defensive."

"And we just …. hang about for a hundred years?"

"We'd be a family, Missy. Granted, a small one. An isolated one. But they'll - I haven't thought this through, Missy. But I feel like - you once said that it was like unstoppable forces and immovable objects, and you're one and I'm the other, but that dynamic hasn't changed through thousands of years. It survived the time war. We're not going change until we have a reason outside of each other to do so."

Missy has her hand on her rounded stomach. He wonders if she even realises she's doing it. Missy unbuttons her coat, takes a deep breath.

"To recap," she says, stooping and picking one of the poppies scattered about the clearing. "You want to stop. Just, stop what both of us are doing. Have this baby, because you want to, and I want her too. And all three of us live on some backwater for - why not one of our TARDISes? Ah, which one do we pick. How do we choose. So we have a house, and a garden, because you like having gardens when you can. And we just - "

" _Live_ , for a hundred or so years. We'll get that life we thought we'd have on Gallifrey, a million years ago," says the Doctor. "It's not replacing what we lost. It's just changing how we exist in the universe for a while. After that, who knows. Perhaps it will be a permanent change. Maybe not."

The Doctor looks at Missy. She looks at him. Looks at her shoes. Runs one hand over her stomach. Fiddles with one of her buttons.

"Missy, why can't we have this baby?" he asks finally, and Missy shrugs. "What is stopping us?"

"We're us," says Missy quietly. Then, "Is this how it happened with River? Did you have to fight it out like this?"

"Is right now the time to - no, not really. I had one night with River. That was our reward. A twenty-seven year long night. This isn't a reward. This is us, continuing, going on, as we always do. In a new form, sure. We're not like me and River. You and I, me and you - we will always go on. We go on, and this time, maybe we'll be changed."

Missy nods slowly. Bites her lip. "Okay," she says slowly, and the Doctor's hearts stop beating for a second. She looks at him, smiles, with her eyes and her mouth. Opens her hands, rubs her fingers against her palms. "Okay."

"Really?"

"We're going to need a hell of a contract."

The Doctor feels himself grinning. "Really?"

"That's a yes."

"Missy - "

"Item one. I get final say on naming her," Missy says. "You have input, can make suggestions. I pick."

"Fine! Absolutely!" The Doctor says, clapping his hands.

Missy tips her head to one side, looks at him fondly. The Doctor strides across the clearing, his boots brushing through the grass, wraps his arms around her waist. Missy runs her hands over his back, holds onto his shoulders. Pulls back so she can look at him.

"We need to pick a planet, and - why are you looking at me like that? You can do that, you can pick the name."

Missy grabs his face, kisses him on the mouth properly. "Contract first, my dear. Please. Then glorious celebratory sex and blueprints."

They pause, their faces a few inches apart. Missy grins at him. The Doctor smiles back. Missy leans in, kisses him again on the cheek. Drops kisses along his jaw, down his neck. Up to his mouth again.

"Sex, contract. Blueprints," she decides, taking his hands. She raises them to her mouth, kisses his knuckles. "These are fascinating hormones."

"It can't be this easy," the Doctor says, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones. He cups her face. "It's not going to be this simple."

"We're in minute two of the agreement, Doctor. It's the honeymoon stage."

"I want a room for my guitars. Or a music room. No, separate guitar room, with a lock. I've got a flame-throwing one."

Missy laughs, presses their foreheads together. The Doctor closes his eyes. Missy reaches up and takes his hands, entwines their fingers. Places their hands carefully on her stomach.

"I'm not kidding, Missy."

"Ah, dear. Honeymoon stage, over."

"Guitar room, separate rooms. Orchard, I'll take care of that. You can name - her. Her. You can name her? It's a girl?"

Missy looks down at her stomach. Nods.

"Missy? We're having a girl?"

"We're having a girl."

The Doctor hugs Missy tightly, pressing his face into her neck. Holds the back of her head, winding his fingers into her hair. They stand, pressed together for a few moments, until Missy shifts.

"Well, a girl for now. Gender is a fluid thing," Missy mumbles, and they both laugh. She sniffs, butts her forehead against his shoulder. "Item four. Crisis negotiation. I decide to take over the nearest inhabited moon. One of your friends finds out what we're up to."

The Doctor opens his mouth, hoping something clever and sensical regarding the practises of Darekan Conflict Accords will come out. Nothing happens. He closes his mouth again. Opens it.

"I've got nothing," he says. "Well, there's something, but it's not happening right - "

Missy cuts him off by kissing him again. "I get you," she says, taking his hands. "I got you. We'll talk about it tomorrow. We've got about fourteen months left to prepare."

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow. We're having a girl, Missy." He holds his hand against her stomach. "Hello."

"Hi."

"Hi, baby. Hello little one."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*** * ***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Day Five_  

This planet spins at 2400 kilometres per hour, its orbit almost like a figure eight between two small suns. It moves at 109,000 kilometres per hour and this system moves at 250,000 kilometres an hour and the galaxy moves at -

The Doctor sits on the bed beside her, stirs Missy from her doze. He takes the baby out of her bassinet and holds her between his hearts. Missy smiles at him, her eyes sliding shut and her head lolling to one side. It's so warm and soft in the bed.

"Hey," the Doctor says. Eyes still shut, Missy leans against him, feels his pulse in his wrist. "How are you feeling?"

"For the fifth time today, incredibly sore in the places you'd expect, and then just sore everywhere else," Missy slurs. She shifts, trying to focus on the tiredness that weighs down her limbs as opposed to the pain in certain other areas. "She's so tiny. Thank fuck. These drugs are amazing. I love your TARDIS. Don't tell her I said that. I love you. Don't tell you I said that. Shh. Oh no, baby, shhh. I love you too, you. Little. Thing."

The baby starts squeaking, working her way up to a cry. The Doctor stands, walks across to the window, rocking her gently. Shushes her. Missy tips her head again, trying to eke out what she wants. Suddenly there's a hollow pit in her stomach, and Missy knows.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says quietly. "Either of you."

"No, it wasn't you. She's hungry," says Missy, straightening up and holding out her arms, wiggling her fingers. "Gimme."

The Doctor gives her the baby. Comes round the other side of the bed, slides in next to Missy as she holds their daughter to her breast. The baby starts to suck away greedily.

"You need to focus. Mentally. You're out of practise."

"I am, I am. You're better at that anyway." The Doctor rubs her leg. "She's only been here five days, I still need time."

"Still need to name her," Missy reminds him, watching the baby, feeling her weight and warmth against her. "Peppa Pig comes to mind, right now."

"Still need time," says the Doctor. He reaches over and runs Missy's tangled hair through his fingers, ties it back out of the way. "Do you have any ideas?"

"What?"

The Doctor repeats the question.

"Kind of," says Missy. "Some ideas came to me last night, but in my House we were meant to wait until they were a year old."

"You really are out of it," the Doctor says. "If you're thinking Oakdown is the right guide for raising kids. They didn't exactly do a bang-up job on you or your cousins."

Missy blinks at him, uncomprehending. The Doctor doesn't really know what he's saying either.

"Don't worry," says the Doctor, and Missy shrugs with one shoulder, careful not to jostle their daughter. "Joke."

"It's stupid, but want it to connect with Arah," Missy says, which is a discussion they've had before. "I had a thought. But I forgot it."

"It's not stupid. I do too."

"Without it rhyming. That would be stupid. Ah - thank god she hasn't got teeth yet."

"Rhyming would be a bit stupid," says the Doctor, then blinks. "I should have let you build that babysitting robot."

"Looks like she's done. Catch." Missy passes the baby back to the Doctor, pulls her pyjama shirt back up. Rubs her nipple and winces. "I forgot about this part. You're on vomit patrol, by the way."

The Doctor rests the baby on his stomach as she drops off to sleep, drooling and snuffling a little bit. Missy leans her head against the Doctor's shoulder, tries to focus. He turns his head and presses his mouth to her hair, looks back at the baby.

"She's so tiny. They don't really do much at this point, do they?" she says. "I'm so glad she got my eyes. These eyes, I mean."

"She's perfect," the Doctor says. "Also looks a bit like Winston Churchill."

"Her sister was the same, if we'd known who Churchill was," says Missy, slurring again. "Just browner. And louder. She cried so much, her first month. Don't cry that much you, I'm old this time around."

"Listen to your mother," the Doctor says to the little being dribbling on his shirt. "Do you need anything?"

"A nap," Missy says. "Then a cup of tea. Take the monster with you, or she'll just wake me up accidentally. Little monster. Bye, baby."

The Doctor tucks the baby against his chest again. Pecks Missy on the temple. She lies back down and and the Doctor pulls the covers up. Closes her eyes.

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor struggles up, holding the baby against him and troops down the corridor to the bright kitchen with its big windows overlooking the yellowy plains. He sets the kettle to boil, decides to just make the tea in mugs instead of toting a teapot and cups backwards and forwards. He waits for the kettle, turns the baby so she can face the window. She blinks vaguely at the colours outside, squints, her blue eyes bright. Makes a curious noise.

"This is your world, so far," the Doctor says. "You'll go outside soon. You'll see the sky and the stars and the suns. That's why we picked this planet, more or less. It felt right, having two suns."

She opens and closes her mouth, sighs. Dribbles a bit. He carefully pours the water, one-handed, into the mugs. Finishes the tea and totes the mugs into the room one by one, puts Missy's on the table next to her chair.

Sits in his own armchair and looks out at the view, the burgeoning garden and the yellow plains and the purply mountains beyond, the bright blue sky.

"Enjoying yourself?" he says to his daughter. She burbles. The Doctor takes his sonic screwdriver out and flicks it on and off. She blinks up at the buzzing, and the flickering lights, kicks out her feet, pokes her hands up. "You like it? Good, you'll be hearing that a lot." He puts the screwdriver away.

Reaches down. The baby reaches up, grabs onto his index finger with her pudgy hand, squeezes.

"That's my girl," says the Doctor quietly, and she makes another happy noise. "You're a strong one, aren't you?"

He hears footsteps, looks up to see Missy in her dressing gown, wandering in. She smiles at them both.

"You two are having too much fun for me to sleep," she says. Sits down in her chair, takes a long sip of tea.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. It's alright for now."

"We can sort out the sleeping - you can go to the zero room if you need. We can."

"I can sleep when she sleeps, and she's dropping off slowly. Look at her go."

The Doctor lets the baby hold onto two of his fingers, cradles her head with his free hand. Tries to get his fingers back so he can have a drink of tea.

"Right decision?" the Doctor says, eventually arranging the baby in the crook of his arm. Finally gets his tea, drinks deeply. "Yes, baby, give me one second."

Missy tucks her hair behind her ear. "It's bringing back a lot of memories," she says quietly. "Good ones and bad ones."

The Doctor leans forward. Gives the baby his fingers again, and she gums on the base of his thumb. "Missy?"

She smiles, eyes soft. "Always the right decision. And I was thinking."

"Always dangerous."

"Arah. That was a Lungbarrow story you got her name from, right? In the stories, she had a cousin? You know that story better than I do. Did? Do."

"A cousin who was raised like a sister, like it was with me and Brax," says the Doctor. "Oh. Oh. I see where you're coming from."

Missy props her chin in her hand, looks at him expectantly.

"And they dealt with the - the Sontarans, by harnessing an Eye of Harmony, yes they did," the Doctor says, shifting the baby. "Yes they did, indeed. Home in time for tea."

He catches Missy's look. "Oh, right. It depended on the story, but the one Brax and I were told had Arah, and um. Tia - Tiamat." He pauses. "Tiamat. It's a Willowstream name traditionally, Missy."

Missy looks at him. He looks at her. Missy splutters with laughter and the Doctor laughs too. The baby squawks when he moves, and he holds her up against his chest, pats her back gently. She snuffles, sighs. Settles down and closes her eyes.

"Tiamat," says Missy, and hums. "We should sleep on it. Tiamat. Tiama," she adds. "Tia."

The Doctor delicately strokes the baby's face with one finger. "Tiamat."

"We really should sleep on it," says Missy, taking a long, loud drink of tea. "Just a snooze."

"Then sleep."

She adjusts herself in her armchair, stretches her legs out so her bare feet are touched by the sunlight. Tugs over a blanket and drapes it across her shoulders.

"I am, I am, I am. You should sleep too."

"I'm fine here," the Doctor says. "What do you want to do this afternoon?"

"More sleeping," Missy says. 

"It's a nice day, out there."

"Sleeping outside then. I have everything I need right here."

 

*** * ***

 

 

_Year Three_

 

The earth is warm. The Doctor keeps scraping with his trowel until the final hole is dug, the black dirt making the pale yellow grass on the edges seem more vivid.

"I need my assistant!" he calls, and receives no reply. "Tia, I need the - "

"Got the mint!" Tiamat shouts, tottering over from the shade of the house, holding the small bush aloft. "Mint!"

"I wanted the rosemary, but fine. Fine," says the Doctor, taking it off her, catching her as she stumbles. "Where do we put it?"

"In the hole. That one," Tia points at the hole he's just finished. "Yes."

"Yes. Good enough."

Tia sits in his lap, chubby and unmoving, and so he reaches around her and puts the plant in the ground, shows her how to push the rest of the dirt back in around it. She pats around the plant's base, her hands making little thuds. She rubs the dirt between her fingers, exploring the sensation.

"Good," she finally says. Tries to put it in her mouth, until the Doctor catches her hands. "Not good?"

"Not good, no," says the Doctor. He stands Tia up, stands up himself with a groan. He reaches down and takes Tia's hand. She holds onto his index and forefinger. "Come on, let's go get the next one off mum. Nearly finished, then you - "

"Up."

"Hm?"

"Uppa."

"Up, what?"

Tia affects an eyeroll he knows she must have inherited from Missy. "Up, please. Dad."

The Doctor smiles down at her, grabs her under the arms and heaves her up onto his hip, notes the dirt he's smeared on her already-grubby tunic. Oh well. They walk away from the herb patch, Tia mumbling to herself, and come up on Missy lying on one of the deckchairs in her Raybans, a book open on her chest. The last two plants the Doctor has yet to put in the ground are waiting next to her.

"You were meant to give her the rosemary," he says, and Tia laughs, wriggling about. She kicks him in the leg and he lets her down. "Miss - "

"Mum likes mint more, mint first," Missy says, propping herself up on one elbow. "Honey. Sweetheart, you're all dirty."

"Mint! Rosemary now?"

Tia begins to sort through the plants, picking the leaves off of the rosemary and smelling them. She points.

"Yes, that's the one," the Doctor says. "What's the other?"

Tia shrugs, picks up the rosemary. "Up again. _Please,_ Dad."

Missy snorts.

"You're the worst," the Doctor says to Missy, leans down and kisses her, making sure to brush his fingers down her cheek and leave a wide stripe of dirt. Kisses her again, puts more dirt on her neck. Tia makes a disgusted noise in the background. "The absolute worst."

"I know what you're doing," Missy mumbles against his mouth. "Want me to carry over the thyme?"

"If you wouldn't mind. I know you're ridiculously busy here."

"Absolutely flat out."

He picks up Tia and the plant, totes them over to the garden again. Tia is busily overwatering the rest of the patch with her collection of small buckets and turning it to mud when Missy slopes up, kneels next to the Doctor, unceremoniously plunks the thyme in the last hole.

"You're meant to plant them straight," the Doctor says, fixing it.

"Yah," Tia says, upending the last of her buckets on the coriander.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not meant to be carrying anything heavy anyway," Missy says.

"It's a punnet of herbs," says the Doctor, not listening, scraping dirt into the hole. "Not an anvil, you drama queen."

"I'm trying to hint - " begins Missy, gives up. "Deja bloody vu."

Tia giggles. The Doctor ignores both of them, finishes with the thyme, wipes his hands on his pants. Missy laughs and taps his shoulder. He looks up in time to see Tia slipping over in a patch of mud she'd created, landing on her rump with a splat. Unperturbed, she pats her hands in the muck and starts to paint her skin with it. Smears it across her face, into her tight curly hair, smiling delightedly.

Missy tuts. "She's going to need a bath," she says. "I'll do it."

"I think we all need showers."

"We should have a bath," Missy says. "Later. Together. You and me."

Missy leans against him, rests her head on his shoulder. The Doctor rubs her knee and nods. They both watch Tia painting herself.

"In about four years," Missy adds, and the Doctor laughs. "When we have time."

"Are you going to stop her?" the Doctor asks.

"Nah. Unless she tries eating it," says Missy. "She gets that from your side of the family."

Tiamat gets up and toddles over, dripping mud and water in her wake. She stands in front of her parents, grins. Makes her way over to Missy, plunks down in her lap, getting mud all over Missy's skirt and coat. Missy sighs, drops a kiss on top of Tia's head.

"Beloved daughter, I'm going to kill you," she says. "Or you could have a bath. Do you want a bath?"

"Nah," says Tia, carefully painting muddy spirals - basic children's Gallifreyan - on the Doctor's trousers and sleeves. "Nah bath either."

Missy strokes her hair back and looks into the middle distance. "Bath eventually."

"Nah."

"Yah," says the Doctor, getting out his handkerchief and wiping some of the mud off Tia's face. He glances at his forearm. "Yah bath. What have you written here? Ah, gibberish. Fantastic." He wipes Tia's hands clean. "Do you want to put your buckets away?"

"Nah, nah. I don't want a bath. I don't like the bath."

"You like the bath. You can play with your ducks. Why are they always ducks?" the Doctor wonders aloud. "Anyway. Regardless. Bath. Ducks. Can you write ducks?"

"Nah." Tia gets up again, totters off over to examine a patch of daisies. "Nah, nah."

The Doctor tips his head to one side and watches her, a small smile on his face.

"She's going to be overtired if she keeps this up," Missy says.

"She's enjoying herself. Let her be."

"Is the mustard machine on your TARDIS still working?" Missy asks quietly.

The Doctor shrugs, watches Tia picking flowers. "I think there's some in the house, so I haven't looked in a while. It's not exactly high on my priorities list. Hm. Maybe I should get a mustard plant. Why do you ask?"

"Two thousand years and nothing changes," says Missy, tutting. She stands with a groan. "You hungry, baby?"

"Yes," says the Doctor, as Tia says, "Yah."

Missy laughs again. "Awkward," she finally says, and the Doctor pretends it didn't happen. "I meant, should we start dinner?"

"We should," says the Doctor.

Tiamat wanders back up with two handfuls of daisies. She presents one to the Doctor, toddles past him and gives Missy the other crushed handful.

"Yeah, you're hungry," Missy says, taking Tiamat's hand and tugging. "Come on you two."

"I want up."

"And I want you to have a bath," says Missy. "Ask your father."

"Nah. Daddy," Tia says. "Dad. Uppa."

The Doctor stands, stretches. Tia runs at him and he catches her, hoists her onto his side. Missy smiles at them both as the Doctor presses a kiss to Tiamat's muddy cheek. They walk inside the house.

 

Later that night, the Doctor pours two brandies, sets up the board and waits for Missy to come from Tiamat's room. Finishes his drink before that happens. He's pouring his second one when he hears Missy's footsteps on the floorboards, turns to see her leaning against the doorframe.

"She made me recite Snow White and the Seven Keys to Doomsday twice. Now she's passed out," Missy says, with a satisfied smile. "There's still mud in her hair but that's an issue for tomorrow." She crosses the room, sits on the armchair. "Now my Lord Doctor, to business. I'll be black."

The Doctor sits in on the couch opposite her, puts his glass on the table, stares at the chessboard.

"Are you taking guests for the night?" Missy asks.

"If I must," says the Doctor, picking up his pawn and shifting it. "Tiamat was telling me today, during her writing lesson. She wants to go to Earth. She told me because she knows how you feel about the place. More or less."

Missy quirks an eyebrow. "It's those damned books you've gotten her reading. Giving her ideas."

"Of course," the Doctor says. "Your turn. Oh, and there's a jar of mustard in the fridge. I checked for you."

"Yes." Missy looks up at him with a strange smile. Tilts her head and stares at the board for a few minutes, toying with her glass. Runs her fingers around the rim. "I mean, the Regency, maybe. Perhaps, perhaps - " she moves the mirror of his pawn. Frowns. "A proper Victorian Christmas, or something."

"You're in a good mood," says the Doctor. "Well. There's no recording equipment in the Victorian or Regency eras."

"Knowing your friends, somehow someone would hear about it," Missy says.

The Doctor moves a different pawn. "Wait, the Regency? The Regency? Ah. Jefferson?" he says tiredly. "I still don't get it, Missy."

Missy shrugs. "He's nice when you get to know him."

The Doctor sips his drink. "I suppose. France. If she wants to practise her French."

"Oui, oui, mon amour," Missy says, and shifts another piece, her hand drifting over the board. "Later. When we can all walk for more than twenty metres without falling over. Oh, we should get crepes when we do go though."

The Doctor watches her fingers, moves his gaze to her face. "You said something today. Something strange. Is there something on your mind?"

"How many of those have you had?" Missy says with a sly smile, pointing at his drink.

The Doctor moves his rook, puts it down with a click.

"You try digging a dozen holes while chasing a three year old. Missy. Are you happy here?" the Doctor asks in a rush. "It's been five years since we made our deal. To the day. Last week. We both forgot." He sees Missy's expression. "I'm happy here," he adds quickly. "I'm very happy. Are you?"

"I am, my dear. I'm very happy." Missy blinks over at him, smiles softly. "Oh, it's my turn."

They play for a few minutes in silence, Missy chewing on her lip. The Doctor frowns at the board, wishing he'd picked backgammon instead. The clock ticks slowly in the background. He shifts his knight, finishes his drink. Missy slides him her glass and lets their fingers brush when he takes it.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mistress?"

"I'll take advantage of you later," says Missy. "Or now." She leans over and flicks her queen and king over. "I concede, you win. Well done. Good game. Expertly played."

She stands and comes over to him, sits on his lap, kisses him deeply, resting her fingertips on his jaw. Kisses the corner of his mouth.

"Okay, how many of those have _you_ had," the Doctor says, sliding his hands over her hips.

Missy laughs into his mouth. He kisses her, moving down her neck. Pauses at her collar, which is still damp from Tiamat splashing at them during her bath. "Still not having sex, by the way."

"None. I shouldn't be drinking," says Missy, rubbing his thigh. She pecks him on the temple. "Have you - "

"Hm. Perhaps an easier game?"

"I'm not playing UNO," Missy says. "We need some new games."

"Cluedo?"

"We need three people and last time Tia insisted that Professor Plum had no clear motive for - well, you were there. It would be better if we could play with four people."

"Poker."

Missy slides out of his lap onto the couch, leans against him. "Nothing ever changes with you, does it. I'm going to bed," she says finally, grabs his face and kisses him on the cheek. "I've got - "

The penny drops.

"Oh. _Oh_ ," says the Doctor, and looks at her. Missy is still holding his face, rubbing his cheek with her thumb, and she grins at him. "No. You're not."

Missy nods, leans in and kisses him properly.

"Wait," he says against her mouth. "Wait, wait, wait - "

"Aha, the Doctor is in," Missy says with a giggle. "You figured it out yet, my dear?"

"You're pregnant," the Doctor says, dumbfounded. "You're pregnant again, aren't you?"

Missy chuckles. Kisses him again. The Doctor stays very still. Puts his hands on her front, as if checking something's there. Finally,

"We've barely had time to even have sex since we picked this planet, how did we manage that?" he asks, and Missy starts laughing so hard she snorts. "No, really? Shh, you'll wake Tiamat."

"I think so. I really think so," says Missy, pressing her face into his neck. She kisses the top of his shoulder. "Your TARDIS seems to think so, when I dropped round there this morning and used the infirmary. All signs point to yes."

The Doctor looks up at her. Cups her face. Missy tips her head, kisses his palm.

"Another one?" he asks.

"Another one. Is that okay?"

"We need to sort out our birth control," says the Doctor, leaning forward and straightening the chessboard, putting all the pieces back up. "I mean. You know. It's good. It's great - "

"No, I agree. I agree," Missy reaches over and moves a white pawn. "I definitely agree. Two is enough. Two is great. Two is - "

"It's wonderful," the Doctor says, holds her to his side, squeezes her hip. "Now you're staying up?"

Missy shrugs. "I want to sit with you, I suppose. We should probably discuss how we'll tell Tia," she says.

"When you get fat enough for her to notice," says the Doctor. "Or, maybe when. We know, if it's a boy or a girl?"

Missy nods, moves the hand he has on her hip to her stomach. "I've got a feeling, actually," she says. "But we'll wait until I can check on the tiny little thing."

"Tiny little thing," echoes the Doctor, pressing his mouth to her hair. It smells like oranges. "Huh."

"Hm?" Missy says.

The Doctor frowns, then smiles. Chuckles. Starts laughing loudly.

"What? What is it? Shh, now _you're_ going to wake Tia."

The Doctor calms down until he meets her gaze. Keeps laughing until Missy smacks him over the head with a throw pillow.

"How long have we been having sex?" he finally asks, getting his breath back.

Missy frowns. "Ah - I suppose we'll round it to two thousand years. On and off. It's - "

"Two thousand years." The Doctor laughs. "Two thousand years and this is the first time you've ever thought of the line, 'the Doctor is in.' And - "

Missy shoves her face into the couch cushions and snorts, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

"And we weren't even having sex, " the Doctor finishes. "Shh, shh, sorry - "

"Stop laughing," Missy laughs, rolling over, covering her face with the pillow. "You're the worst. We have to rewrite our entire contract. We don't even have a contract-signing room. I suppose we could use one of the TARDISes. We're not building a - "

The Doctor leans down and kisses her, moving so he's bracketed between her legs. The couch creaks under them. Missy drops kisses along his jawline. Pauses.

"It's your turn too, you moron," she says, and the Doctor catches her mouth. "I love you," Missy adds, tracing her fingers across his lips.

"You too." The Doctor smiles down at her, kisses her on the cheek and then under her ear. "You never let me play black," he says, sits up. Moves a pawn. "How strange."

"I've had something up on you the entire week," Missy says, leaning against him. She moves her bishop across, takes his hand and threads their fingers together. "For once you deserve to know what I'm doing first. That said. Would you like to watch a film instead? Kissing is easier when it's passive media. I want to do a lot of kissing right now."

"Sounds tolerable, I suppose." The Doctor finishes his drink. Stands. "I'm going to make us some tea," he says. "You pick."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Missy stretches luxuriously. "How's this for domestic bliss though?"

"You bit me three days ago while we were shagging," the Doctor says, looking down at her. "Blitz, not bliss."

"You see my point, right? You get me," says Missy.

The Doctor goes into the kitchen, sets the kettle to boil. Watches from the doorway as Missy flicks through a few dozen movie titles.

"Yeah, I got you," he says. Smiles. Pours the tea.

 

 

 

**THE END.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is that. Hope you all liked it!
> 
> I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who's read, kudos'd, shared or commented on this fic - it's always a wonderful feeling to get such a warm response to a story I've worked really hard on. I also want to shout out to Kiara and Ilana who looked over parts of this story at various points, and especially to Kiara for dealing with about a dozen iterations of "what if the final scenes looked like THIS?" while she was trying to do her own writing. 
> 
> If you have any questions about details I glossed over in this fic, such as why the Master did end up leaving Gallifrey, the specifics of Gallifreyan pregnancy, what gender the Doctor and Missy's other baby is, don't hesitate to ask!
> 
> Thank you again for all your support and responses over the past few months, it's such a great community here on AO3.


	13. Chapter 1 DVD Commentary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was revisiting this fic for inspiration, and so I've just annotated the first chapter with some notes in bold about references and jokes and things if anybody was interested!

> We met at the wrong time. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. Maybe one day years from now, we’ll meet in a coffee shop in a far away city somewhere and we could give it another shot. —Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004).

**I like that the whole concept of the fic is wrapped up in this quote. And it comes back in chapter 12 - I don't know how many people noticed the quotes but yeah. Here and again in chapter 12, they meet in a coffee shop in a far away city somewhere (in time) and give it another shot.**

 

*** * ***

The Doctor looks in all the usual places. And by all, he means the ones he can access, the ones he can stomach seeing, the ones that still exist. Gallifrey is right out, and he skirts around most of the major conflict zones because he's just not in the mood. And really, it's no use looking if she doesn't want to be found.

Regardless.

The usual places he ticks off are Melcassario, the Silver Devastation's Golden Age. An asteroid made entirely of dwarf star iron that smells like burning metal even through a spacesuit. He stops on the Eye of Orion, breathes in deeply, can't sense a living thing out in the mists and ruins.  **So Melcassario (which I spell with delightful inconsistency in most fanfics) is where Utopia was set. No idea why Missy would go back there but it's a callback to that episode. In that ep, Yana mentions he was found on the Silver Devastation as a small child, so I feel like Missy might go back there because the TARDIS she used to escape the war the first time might still be there. The Eye of Orion is from the Classic Series and I sort of understand it as the natural chilled out spa space of the universe.** The premiere of the Fabulous Baker Boys, because they've both always had a thing for Michelle Pfeiffer.  **The idea of immortal beings having weird obsessions with one "minor" Earth thing (like Aziraphale and Regency Silver snuffboxes in Good Omens) is always amusing to me).** The Festival of Stars on Krechna - ten thousand tiny suns shining in the sky over a planet where multicoloured crystals grow like grass. It's beautiful, even through his triple-glazed sunglasses.  **I ended up wishing I hadn't used Krechna here, as I would eventually run out of places to send Missy and the Doc on their visits.** The premiere of Coriolanus, too, because Missy likes Shakespeare more than she'll admit.  **Coriolanus is probably the most infamously homoerotic of Shakespeare's works, and as I recall, it's about two men who are enemies who also wanna bang kind of. ~symbolism~**

He paces through the six millennial markets of Neptune over six thousand years; if Missy's avoiding Gallifrey too, she'll need to get TARDIS parts from somewhere. He gets distracted in Market #4, because they have the most incredible collection of guitars he's ever seen. One even shoots fire, and he's sure if Clara was around, and he remembered her, she'd be the kind of person who would try to talk him out of buying a flame-throwing electric guitar, but then ask to use it when he ignored her and bought it anyway. **This is a Mad Max reference and there's no deeper meaning.**

He misses Clara, in the way you miss someone you don't remember. He never met his grandparents - or if he did, he's forgotten that too.  **I assume Time Lords (which I'm probably going to use interchangeably with Gallifreyans in these annotations) if they have multiple kids, traditionally spread them out a l o o o o o t, so if the Doctor was his parent's youngest (which in my head, he is), chances are his grandparents could have been very old or dead when he was born. And as family structures don't seem like ours on Gallifrey, they were probably quite distant, regardless. It doesn't come up but here I figured the reason the Doctor and Braxiatel were "close" for Time Lords was because they actually had an unusually small age gap for Time Lords, enough they did cross at the Academy. Like, it would still be at least a few decades. This also shows how odd Koschei and Theta, and Theta and Lix were, in planning on having/having children relatively close together.**

 

  *** * ***  

 

Missy isn't on the Planet of the Apes.

Things that are on the Planet of the Apes: a man who looks oddly like Matt Damon, a tour bus full of people from a nearby mining planet, a 1950s diner. He does a double-take at the last one, and it's gone when he looks again. **I don't know if it's a naturally-occurring Planet of the Apes or if someone created a Planet of the Apes because of the film series, I just like the (vague) running mentions of it.**

In 2087 the International Space Station blows up, and he goes and checks that out, but it seems the archivists just weren't cleaning out the dust filters properly. The Doctor goes to a poetry recital with Ada Lovelace, helps some space-bees find a new space-hive, sells the honey off at some farmer's market, and goes back and buys the flamethrower guitar with the cash. **How does the Doctor pay for shit like he borrowed money off of Donna's dad. Regardless, I like how sidequesty this kind of feels.**

 

It's pretty wicked sick.  **Several long sentences with lots of action and a sense of a wider universe lead to a crescendo that is just - "pretty wicked sick." I like that sense of buildup to "this is a very early 2000s saying."**

 

*** * ***

 

once upon a time in nazi-occupied france

**this title was actually inspired by Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds, which has the same intertitle. Hence, why the title appears a fair chunk of the way into the fic. World War II is plumbed by fiction for stories, to the point where it basically is some strange large historical epic media franchise, in some people's eyes. So the idea of it becoming beyond some film/book/radio/play franchise and becoming a fairytale is really interesting to me.**

 

Missy has always been rather like a stray cat; showing up when she wants attention or food, absent when he needs something from her. **Take a shot every time a Missy fic likens her to a cat.** As such, he's sitting in a cafe in Vichy France (he was aiming for 2042) and waiting for his lunch when Missy plops down in the chair opposite him. **Me: "Shit, why the hell would the Doctor willingly go to Vichy France? Ah yes, his TARDIS is faulty."**

"Jim the Fish," she says by way of greeting. "Is completely and utterly useless. I'll never understand why you recommend him." **Jim the Fish is a River/11th Doctor reference, so right off this is kind of a dig on her part at River.**

"I've never recommended you go to Jim the Fish," says the Doctor, hoping Jim will be alive next time he sees him.

"Not directly, no. But I hear things," says Missy, and flips through the menu, blows air out from between her lips. "What are you having?"

"Vegetable stew."  **Is Twelve currently a vegetarian? It doesn't matter. Here he's a vegetarian, even though I nearly forgot that myself a few times.**

"Ah, you're back on the hippy horse again," Missy says. "Which means - " she drops the menu back on the table. "Time Lords. How is the mother country?"

"Same as always. Hot, dry, full of morons in stupid hats-"

"Funny you should say that. Jim had a photo of you in one of those - cowboy hats humans wore in the Americas. You and the missus - "

"Stupid collars. Thanks," says the Doctor, as his soup is placed in front of him. "Do you want anything? I'll pay."  **It's probably obvious but he cuts her off here because he doesn't want to talk about River, and he doesn't want Missy tainting his memory of River, which are two separate things.**

"So generous," says Missy. She orders tea and cakes and then picks up her spoon and takes a sip of the Doctor's soup.

"You never pay anyway," he says, swatting away her hand.  **Here it's clear that Missy has very few boundaries but instead of properly reacting, as the Doctor would do when there's one of his companions around, he's just mildly irritated.** "And that stripper you got during my stag doesn't count. Where have you been?"

"Avoiding you."

"Seriously?"

Missy meets his gaze over the table, blue eyes into green. He breaks first, as usual, and looks at his plate.

"I have hobbies, Doctor. I've just been kicking about, sightseeing."  **I do always wonder what the Mistress/Master does in their free time. You do see Delgado's Master reading, so there's that. I mean, they can't spend all their time ruling over places and causing chaos.**

"How many people have you killed?"

Missy leans back in her chair, rolls her eyes. "Do you want this month's estimate or an all-time tally, because either way we'll have to head back to my TARDIS, find the spreadsheets-"

"Since I saw you last."

"Since you left me to die on Skaro."

The Doctor knows himself well enough; remembers enough of what happened despite the gaps in his memory. "Since you did something to upset me enough to cause me to leave you there. And Missy, history shows. You bounce back."

Her cakes are brought to the table.

"Merci," says Missy drily, as much to the Doctor as to the waitress. She picks the strawberries off one of the pastries, eats one, licks her fingers clean of powdered sugar. "Want to know how I escaped?"

"I can never follow your escape stories," the Doctor says, and stirs his soup. **Read: I hate writing details about how people escape.**

They eat in silence for a few minutes, the Doctor crumbling up some bread, Missy eating the strawberries one by one. A group of Nazi officers let themselves into the cafe, taking their hats off and holding them under their arms. The Doctor ignores them. Missy nods to one, who gives her a slow smile. **I always find the Vichy France (the puppet government the Nazis had in charge of France, more or less) dynamic very interesting.**

"I lose count, every time," Missy says, cutting open something with raspberry jam on the inside. It oozes red over the plate. **It's blood. ~symbolism~** "I mean. Really. How many people have you killed?" Any other person, any other time or place, that would be a question that pierces him to his soul, makes his blood run cold. The Doctor keeps eating. Missy looks around the cafe, catches eyes with the Nazi again. She turns back to face the Doctor. "Where's Clara?"

"That's why I was looking for you," the Doctor says.

"Ugh, you've not gone and lost her, have you? Because it's nothing to do with me." Missy licks jam off her finger. **She keeps licking her fingers. The Doctor is oblivious.** "Check behind the sofa in the blue library, I always lose my keys-" **Establishing that Missy has a fair whack of familiarity with the TARDIS.**

"I went back to Gallifrey. I went kind of - I think I went mad, Missy."

"Probably. You've got that flame trees, orange skies, blown pupils look about you. Tea?" **Flame trees is a Cold Chisel reference.**

"Thanks."

She pours him a cup, then herself. Passes him the little jug of milk, the little rose-patterned sugar bowl.

"I erased Clara from my memory, accidentally. Sort of accidentally. I don't know how it happened."

Missy takes a sip.

"Tell me about her."

"Needs sugar."  **Kenneth-Brannagh-as-Benedick-in-Much-Ado-About-Nothing-Voice: "There's a double meaning in that." Tea needs sugar, he needs to sweeten the deal by at least playing along.**

"Please."

She smiles at him over her cup. "Ask her boyfriend. Oh wait, I killed him. He was a Cyberman. Great day. You and me, we made out. Twice."

"I remember the Cybermen. There's holes. I can fill them in, logically. I know Clara must have done X so I was still alive to do Y. I know she saw me kiss you in the graveyard, I know you must have saved her from the Daleks. You knew Clara better than I first realised. So. Here I am. Asking."

"I saved her from the Daleks because you would have gotten all pouty and grouchy if I didn't. There was no sentiment there my dear. It was pragmatism."

"Please, Missy." The Doctor wonders how many times he's said all the iterations of that - please Mistress, please Master, Koschei come on, let's just leave this place, let's just go.  **I really wanted to use Koschei sparingly, considering it's never said in the show itself. Ditto Theta. And that way in the flashbacks (which weren't planned) it means Koschei and Theta pop more, seem more like their own characters.**

Missy puts her cup down, opens her mouth. The Nazi from earlier approaches, excuses himself. He's middle-aged, with tanned skin and light green eyes.  **This didn't come through in the end but that doesn't matter - he has the same colour eyes as the Doctor, this Nazi was kind of meant to echo Twelve's appearance, but it's hard to do that without making it obvious that THIS NAZI LOOKS LIKE TWELVE Y'ALL. It was just about seeing the Doctor in a soldier, and a soldier very much on the wrong side of history.**

"Sorry, ma'am. But you are - " he speaks in halting French, heavily accented. "You have not been in this town long?"

"No, no," says Missy in flawless German, and smiles, showing fangs. "Just arrived this morning. To visit my big brother." She gestures at the Doctor, who nods, pointedly doesn't smile.

**She says brother instead of like, friend or neighbour or anything, because I wanted to remind people that the Doc and Missy have a very complex relationship. They're friends, they bang, they love each other, last of their kind, square dancing partners, and as we find out later, they did have a child together.**

Emboldened, the man switches to German. "I was wondering, if you were going to the dance in the town hall this evening?"

"Well," says Missy, and she laughs. "I have no plans, but I may see you there."

"You can't give me a guarantee?" he asks.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Excuse me Sir, we're having a conversation. I haven't seen my sister in a long time. We're catching up."

"I didn't mean to intrude," says the officer, frowning slightly.

The Doctor holds up a hand, makes himself smile. "I mean, she really enjoys dancing and she's very available-"

Missy pulls a look of mock-horror at his remark, then giggles. The Doctor's skin crawls. He takes a closer look at the man - he's older than he originally thought. Probably old enough to have served in the First World War. Almost definitely. They threw them all in at the end, he saw a family having to send their son away, long ago, and he didn't come home. He can't even remember which body. It's irrelevant anyway. It's useless. It's taking up time he doesn't want to waste watching Missy's sideshows. **Something something war trauma, World War I was a more "wasteful" war in a way as the lines barely moved, the Germans/Austrians weren't as out-and-out plain evil as the Nazis. It's also a reminder of how recent WWI was during the 1940s - the time war is relatively recent for Missy, and the Doctor's just finished up another battle on Gallifrey.**

"But right now we're just dealing with some family issues," the Doctor says. "Privacy would be appreciated." **Bro you're gonna have some serious family issues in about ten chapters time.**

"Apologies," says the man, and bids his farewells, they all heil their Hitlers, and he retreats to his own table. **I laughed at "they all heil their Hitlers" and I'm not sorry.**

"Not every day you get to stand up a Nazi," Missy says, watching him go. She gives him a wave and he returns it shyly.

"Don't stand him up. Go have fun. I know you love kicking it in this period."

"Gosh gee, Doctor, you're the best big brother a girl could ask for. Going dancing with Nazis."

"You love Nazis. You're older than me, too."

"Nope. I scanned you, back when I was in the Nethersphere," says Missy, taking a crust of his bread and dipping it into his soup. "Not anymore. Couldn't get an exact reading, but the word fossil comes to mind."

"Remind me, Mistress," says the Doctor, and Missy smiles, then takes a bite of bread. "Is this regeneration number eighteen or nineteen out of thirteen?"

"We should go dancing," Missy says around her mouthful. **Her speaking with her mouth full is another nod to them feeling more comfortable around each other with none of the Doc's companions there.** "Jazz in New Orleans, we don't even have to shift that far in time. **I mean really though. It's always odd thinking about the differences between like, France, Russia and the USA in 1942 or Australia, China and Great Britain in 1778.** Or we could -" she swallows. "Oh, you used to love dancing," she's properly smiling now, grinning. "And you always had to drag me out of the house. The Cavern, about the same time jump forward. Remember when we went to the Riot of Spring?"

"You started the riot." he realises he's smiling too, shakes himself. "Come on. Please tell me about Clara."

The grin drops off Missy's face, and she picks up her cake fork. "She was short."

The Doctor nods. Missy pulls the fork's tines through the remnants of the raspberry jam, spears one of the strawberries. **There's a metaphor in there somewhere.** She speaks with her mouth full.

"Big eyes, like that cartoon with the horses. It doesn't exist yet. In the forest. No, they're deer."

"Bambi."

Missy points her fork at him.  **I love non-Earthlings talking about Earth media in a kind of Seinfeldian style, and this reappears in some other chapters, like when they're watching Chicken Run.** "Yes. Take charge attitude. Quick thinker, though obviously not quick enough. I picked her for you because she was a control freak."

The Doctor absorbs all this, nodding. "Only you didn't pick her. I found her."

**Sure, Doctor, sure. That said, still don't like the series nine ~hybrid arc, so I still like the idea of Missy picking Clara for shits and gigs and thinking she'll just set the Doctor on a bad path.**

"She smelt like cinnamon," says Missy.

"Seriously?"

She pulls a disgusted face. "I didn't smell her Doctor, that's foul."

"You smell me."

"You're you. I can smell you. You're a Time Lord."  **TBT the time RTD made the Doctor and the Master be able to smell each other over vast differences, and it was never brought up again nor explained in the show.**

Missy refills their teacups, passes the Doctor the sugar again.

"Do you have - anything else?"

Missy takes a deep breath, lets it out. Looks out the window behind the Doctor and fiddles with her cameo brooch.

"I remember when I gave that to you," the Doctor says, and sighs. **Getting to the dark stuff here.** "Throw me a bone here, Missy."

"I told her I had a daughter. She looked really. Appalled." She smiles, doesn't meet his gaze. Neither of them has brought her up in centuries. "Shocked? No, appalled is the right word. With a touch of 'I thought you only recently got a uterus, how do Time People breed?'"

**So yeah, key here that Missy says "I told her I had" because that was the skeleton given to us in that episode. Everything else is conjecture.**

"How did that conversation happen?"

"We were in the Dalek sewers - after escaping the Dalek council on Skaro, you remember that bit? Yes, good. Do you remember giving me this?" She taps her brooch with her nail.

"It's dark star alloy."  **He doesn't say what the brooch means or refers to the time he gave it to her because it's too loaded and he doesn't quite know where this is going.**

"Cuts through the Daleks like a knife through a person."

"I gave it to you - after everything. Because of it."  **He doesn't talk about their daughter specifically because it's both ancient knowledge to them, and it's just - not something they talk about.** The Doctor leans over, squints at the brooch for a second. "It's held up well. It still looks like her - well, you actually look a bit like her this time around.  **I kind of regret putting that line in, as she was only about nine when she died, but I have this theory that the children of Time Lords get all their potential genetic traits, so like, the Doctor's son could have Four's curly hair and Eleven's eyes and Lix's skin tone, and they wouldn't know where the hair or eyes came from until they eventually regenerated.** Where has it been?"

Missy smiles. "And I told Clara. She looked surprised, like - she was shocked I could have ever done anything as selfless as parent. As human. She wasn't surprised you had kids. You're such a dad, this time. **HE'S SUCH A DAD AND THEN I CRY.** She wanted to see the world in black and white, but thought you two could occupy the greys. I was too dark for that. She didn't like one jot."

"So she was also sensible."

Missy smiles into her tea. **Missy likes it when he comments on her evilness without denigrating it.** "This is nice," she says. "We never just meet anymore. I always have to enslave something."

"I do know you have my number. You're the uh- " the Doctor clicks his fingers. "The woman in the shop. That's what how you put me and Clara back together."

"I know, but phones aren't really our thing this time. There's no excitement in - " she held a hand up to her ear, pretending it's a phone. "Hello dear, it's me. The Shadow Proclamation is currently under my control and following my demands to stomp out any beings with more than two thumbs. Your move, or this moon goes. Very gauche. If anything, it was mine and Clara's thing." **It was hers and Clara's thing because of the planes.**

"So, you had a thing. You must have liked her, or trusted her, if you told her about all that. Or, did she remind you of you?"

"Honestly, Doctor, if I was a thousand years younger and two millennia more innocent, and had a human-sized IQ and a cockroach-sized imagination, and looked a bit like a cartoon rabbit-"

"I thought she looked like a deer."

"Cartoon bunny. They're both does. **I laugh at this pun every time.** She could have been a sub-par, knock-off, low quality version of yours truly."

"On a bad day."

"On a good day for her-"

"Bad day for you. Well. High praise," says the Doctor.

Missy finishes the her cakes, draws her finger through the crumbs. The Doctor takes her last strawberry. It's red and juicy, perfectly balanced between sweet and tart, and he savours it. **There's a metaphor in there somewhere. Missy has the potential to be his greatest friend and ally, but she's evil. Sweet and tart. She's not balanced, but you see my point.** They sit for a moment and drink their tea.

"You treated her like a daughter. That's probably what triggered me, saying that. It was nice to see." Missy rests her chin on her hands. "I remember more from watching you with your other kids, of course, you had much more time with them. Doctor Dad, Uncle Koschei. You done?" **You don't really see Uncle Koschei, but he was around, a bit. They also had a threesome with Lix. That's what Missy tries to bring up twice but it never actually gets stated outright. Why am I telling you this. I have all these theories about Gallifreyan sexual practises.**

"Yeah."

The Doctor pulls out his wallet, leafs through eight kinds of currency, **how does the Doctor pay for shit,** finds the right amount plus a tip, and tucks it under his plate. Missy stands and dusts off her skirt. On their way out the door, she winks at her new friend, who blushes. A middle-aged man. A war veteran. A Nazi. Blushes. **Doctor, you were flustered when she shoved you up against a wall and macked on with you, and you're a 2000 year old war veteran.**

"The cheekbones on this body," Missy mutters, nudging the Doctor in the ribs, and he has to laugh.

Another soldier stops them just outside the cafe and asks for their papers. The Doctor sighs, holds up his psychic paper and receives a salute; Missy stares into the soldier's eyes and after a few tense second, he folds at the waist and bows deeply. **Missy one-upping the Doctor.** Missy takes the Doctor's arm and he leads them down the street. The sun shines palely down and a cool breeze blows through the houses and shops. The Doctor takes a deep breath, looks around.

"I think there's a river around here somewhere," he says. "I was last here in winter, it's quite nice. This is early spring, I think. Look at the clouds."

"When was that?"

The Doctor clicks his tongue as he thinks. "It was with Susan, but she didn't like the way the language sounded, and I didn't like living with a different bunch of fascists in a different bunch of silly hats."  **It's only strongly implied, but to me, the Doctor left Gallifrey because over a good stretch of centuries, it was both becoming more fascist but also its pre-existing fascist-ness (??) became more obvious to the Doctor. And to Susan.**

Missy tucks her free hand into her pocket, leans against the Doctor as they walk. "So you came looking for me," she says. "You haven't done that since - I was blonde, and a cannibal."

"That was more of a desperate flailing sprint to where I thought you could be. Why did you pick that quarry?"

Missy frowns. "Can you be a cannibal if you're not ingesting the flesh of your own - oh, I was an anthropophagite. **This was basically from a discussion I had on tumblr once. Shout out to that user.** That's the one. And the quarry? I barely knew I was in England, let alone in a rock yard. I mean, you saw the state I was in. Now."

The Doctor and Missy step off the path, out of the way of a group of tipsy German soldiers.  **A reminder of the wartime backdrop and the desperate situation the Allies found themselves in, that the Nazis were occupying France with relative ease.**

"Down here," says the Doctor, and they go through a small side-street, feet crunching on the stones, then across a grassy field. There is a river, still running pale and cold with ice-melt from up in the mountains. They follow it quietly, Missy leading the way.

"Do you have a new human yet?"

"No."

"Any-"

"No."  **He's ~traumatised~**

They continue on in silence, the river rushing by and getting deeper and wider as the countryside gets less cultivated.  **They're moving further away from civilisation (human civilisation) so they can discuss alien concepts/their civilisation/themselves, as aliens, more freely. It also means the Doctor is removed from his good influences, that is, humanity.**

"Here will do," Missy says finally, where there's a relatively dry and clear patch of grass, and flops down in the centre.

The Doctor sits down carefully, stands up abruptly and takes his coat off. He lies that on the ground, sits on top of the fabric. Missy crosses her legs and picks at the grass, starts putting it in a little pile. The Doctor watches her fingers get tipped with dirt, listens to the river rushing by them. Missy starts a second pile. The Doctor goes over to the river bed, picks up a dozen pebbles and hands them to her.

"Thanks," she says, dropping them into her lap.

"How are you?" the Doctor asks finally. "The Time Lords, and that."

"Did they erase your memory?" she says. "They've done that to me. Ended up putting them back in. At least I think they did."  **I like the idea that the Mistress/the Master has been pulled apart so many times by the Time Lords that they really have swathes of memory that they just can't be sure about. This is also a reference to the drums. You'll notice Missy doesn't really answer his question. Probably because her reply would be "not well." She's scared of the Time Lords and Gallifrey in the same way he is, and the last time we saw the Master seeing the Time Lords, they roundly rejected him and called him diseased. So, not well, is her answer.**

"No - no. They trapped me in my confession dial - " the Doctor watches Missy; she continues to pick at the grass, face carefully blank. "For a few….hundred, thousand years. I think. It blurs together. I was trying - I think I wanted to keep Clara alive, I think she was dying." Again, he watches her expression. Nothing. "I don't know, maybe she was sick. I think I saved her, there was a gun, but it wasn't pointed at her. And I think I wanted to erase Clara's memory of me, to stop her doing stupid things - maybe, maybe she wasn't sick. And-"

"She turned it on you."  **We know this isn't how it went down, but Missy doesn't, she's just trying to work the Doctor over to her side.**

The Doctor rubs his eyes. "Maybe. You said she was smart."

"I never said that."

Missy sprinkles her grass pickings in a circle, places a few of the stones at key points inside it. She lays out blades of grass into arcs and triangles, writing in a child's form of Gallifreyan.  **It's actually a child's form because I figured that would be easier to write in grass, the way if we're writing in sand or something, we tend to write in print with all-caps. It's not meant to be about their daughter, but it works both ways.**

"I've turned it over in my mind a thousand times. I can't get the shape of it."

"I can't help you," Missy tells the grass. "I only met her twice really, and it takes a while to hear what they're saying, you know. Through all the whining and human wants and needs and pettiness. Watched you two for a while, but once I was done with her, I was done. **A lying liar who lies.** That's the problem with you and your humans. You just get so attached."

The Doctor knows she's lying about basically everything, but picks up on the easiest thread.

"You liked Lucy."

"You know I have a thing for blondes. Your fifth body-"

"Chang Lee?'

Missy blinks up at him, mouth slightly open. "Who? Ah, exactly. There we go."

"Chantho."

"Oh God, do I remember her." Missy clicks her teeth together. "Still can't stand that species."

"I know, I double-checked on the planet on my way here. Don't try anything, they're peaceful, and you'll end up trying something and tearing a hole in space and time."

Missy glares daggers at him, insulted he'd imply she'd cause a space-time tear accidentally. **I like that this implies she'd totally cause one deliberately.** "I did like that body though. I was all old and pudgy, I like being pudgy. **Time Lords have different body standards. I want to frame this and give it to certain people.** Did you like me pudgy? And that waistcoat-"

"I like you always, Missy, that's usually the problem." **[sums up 98000 words of fic in one line of dialogue]**

"I get bruises easily in this one. You've seen. Legs are too thin," Missy says. She starts a new grass circle, linking it with the first. "I need more rocks."

The Doctor carries over some more stones, puts one on the edge of the new circle. "Time Lords are back though. We're renegades."

"We've had this conversation before. It's familiar. More reason to avoid them now, for me. I'm not in exile anymore. I'm an active war criminal now, there's even warrants. Who knows what they'll do if they find you."  **I don't feel Gallifrey is a threat, from what we saw in the show, so I was trying to ramp up the fear factor here. As cheesy as RTD's writing could be, I think he did get across the Gallifrey/Time War/Time Lords-as-Lovecraftian-nightmares more than what we saw in the series nine finale.**

"They're scared of me. I kicked Rassilon off the planet."

"That's a - that's a bit arousing," Missy says. "After what he did last time, Gods above I'd love to get my hands on him. Does this make you President again?"

"I didn't even think of that," the Doctor says, and sighs heavily. "Probably. Ugh. I'd let you have it, but they'd execute you the second you came within Gallifreyan airspace." That's a lie - the giving her power part, not the executions.

"Some have power thrust upon them," Missy says. "Any more Clara related questions?"

The Doctor has a thousand and none; Missy won't be able to describe Clara's laugh or smile, or if she preferred to sing or hum or whistle because those things wouldn't be useful. Missy will know if Clara was left or right handed (dominant or non-dominant side), how she had her tea (some poisons can't be hidden by milk), would know all of Clara's bad memories, the cracks in her psyche and the low points in her confidence, and especially her weak points about the Doctor. That's just who Missy is, who she's always been. Clara wouldn't have been a person to her, just a means to an end.

"She was right handed," Missy says,  **proving him right, or so we think** . "You're thinking very loudly. Calm down."  **This is setting up the vague psychic abilities they have, but also reminding us that they are alien aliens who alien.**

"I know your weak points."

"I let you keep those. I know yours, too."

"What are you writing?"

Missy looks up at him, as if surprised by his curiosity. The river bubbles past. "Not sure yet. We'll see how it goes." **This story was originally going to be a one-shot, though I think I was lying to myself there.**

Missy waits for him to say something, but when he doesn't, she starts humming and goes back to writing. "Any requests?"

"Something from the Rioshanah system."

Missy starts quietly singing an operetta from the lost planet of Berenna instead. **I love Missy singing in 9x01 I thought it was fantastic. And of course, Oh Missy you so fine.** The Doctor lies back on what looks to be the driest patch of grass and listens, watching the wispy clouds move overhead and feeling dampness slowly soak through his jacket. The pebbles clack in Missy's hands, in time with her song. Something occurs to the Doctor, and he breathes out, tries to get it out of his mind. It doesn't work. Missy swaps to one of the more famous dances from the main planet of Rioshanah, the very picture of innocence. **I think it's obvious, but I'm saying it out loud - she's picked up on his thoughts and is trying to distract him.** The Doctor sits up, narrows his eyes at her.

"You told Clara you had a daughter."

Missy doesn't look up from the ground. "I did. I need more rocks."

The Doctor gets up and walks over to get them, dips his hands into the cold water and feels the sting. He returns with a bigger handful this time. He's not going to let her distract him.

"You didn't say-"

"My exact line,  **nods to the fourth wall,** from memory, was 'The Doctor gave it to me when my daughter-' and then I remembered I wasn't speaking to anyone who deserved that information. There's one other being alive in the universe who needs to know, and that's her father, and I'm looking at him. Huh. He's looking really grumpy."  **This is sort of a twist in a way, in that until now I didn't actually say that the Doctor was the Mistress's daughter's father. As I stated in the comments several times, I actually think the Master had a wife and they had a daughter while he was male (for lack of better terminology), this was just an interesting concept to think about with some personal relevance.**

The Doctor reaches over, drops the stones in her lap, sits down heavily. Stares at her. Missy fiddles with one of the pebbles. It gleams, still damp in the watery sunlight. **Watery sunlight because things are not clear.**

"So you said my daughter, not our daughter."

"She was my daughter. She was also our daughter. Come on grumbleguts, you'd be just as mad if I told her we had a kid. Actually, she would have thought I was lying." Missy places a pebble carefully, still not looking at him. "I needed her to trust me so I could get her into that Dalek casing. I got distracted. I got drunk. I was traumatised from being back on Skaro. I wanted to mention it. I don't know why I said it." **But that said, why did she say it? I think she was just sort of reminiscing and it slipped out, but I've seen many other really great interpretations. She wanted to just tell Clara the Doctor gave it to her to make Clara jealous/stake her claim, but the daughter fact sort of slipped out.**

"Dalek casing?"

Missy waves a hand. "Long story. You thought it was hilarious." He sincerely doubts that. "But don't worry Doctor, she didn't know it was ours. Your reputation with her, as it was, remained intact."

"You told Clara - my Clara - about our daughter."

"It slipped out."

"Was she - was Clara like her?"

Missy swallows, lets the last of her pebbles slip from her fingers. She thinks for a moment, moving her head from side to side slightly like a snake, eyes closed. 

"No," she finally says. "No, not really."

The Doctor breathes out.

"She wasn't really old enough to have a personality, anyway," Missy goes back to writing. "Not Clara. You know."

The Doctor lies down, looks back up at the sky.

There's nothing to say about their daughter that they haven't already said or shouted or screamed or thrown thousands of years ago. They had that conversation a hundred times while they were both still based on Gallifrey. In many ways - it's been too long. At this stage of their lives, she's more of a concept than an actual being. **This comes back in chapter 11 (or 12?) in that really if the Doctor is 2000 at least, an eight year old makes up 0.5% (or something) of his lifespan. That is really -- not much.** The pebbles clack. Missy snaps off more blades of grass. The wind picks up a bit, rippling the surface of the river and rustling the plants. Just as quickly, it dies down into stillness again. The Doctor breathes in the cool air, closes his eyes.

"Why are you still here?" Missy asks.

"I'm enjoying your company."

"The moon must be blue today. Any other traumas to dredge up?"  **I had Missy fucking up an Earth saying to remind us she's really not from here.**

"Honestly, Missy, more than anything else," the Doctor, looking over at her. "I'm amazed you still have that brooch." **LEGIT THO WHERE DID SHE GET IT. My money's on a chest inside a box under a tree in Russia.**

"It's special to me. You know what amazes me, my dear?"

"Hm?"

"Two thousand odd years of conscious life, or however old you are this week, and you're still looking towards the stars." **He's her friend. He will surprise her.** Missy flops back on the grass as well, kicking her legs out over her writing so the Doctor can't see it. **And neither can you.** "The wheel turns, and nothing ever changes."

"Maybe some things should change," the Doctor says.

They can leave it at that. He got what he came for, and more besides.  **He's just testing the waters here, seeing where Missy's at mentally/emotionally, and he likes what he sees.**

Missy sits, looks at him quizzically. The Doctor stands.

"I'm off," he says. "I might come back for the dance."

"You might."

"Well you have a date," the Doctor says. "I can't come alone."

"Ugh, please don't bring one of your humans. They always get weird around the Germans." Missy stands too, scuffs her boot through her writing and scatters the stones. **Oh well, guess we'll never know.** "Dress nice."

"If I come. And I said. I don't have a human right now."

Missy comes over and the Doctor leans down, presses their foreheads together. She expects mental contact to go along with it, but instead she just feels briefly warm. She rests a hand on his waist, closes her eyes.  **I love. This image. I love, forehead presses. They are the best things in the world. I could write a novel about forehead pressing. The novel would be called "Forehead Touch" and it would be illustrated with pictures of forehead presses from various fandoms and across time. If they weren't psychic, I still would have made them do a forehead touch. It's just the ultimate non-sexual form of intimacy, it's just so intimate and trusting and it can be platonic and romantic and I love the idea of Twelve stooping slightly to pull it off, Missy's head tilted up just a little. She's touching his waist, his hands are probably balled by his sides. She closes her eyes; she trusts him here. It's a moment of respite, peace and balance. Praise be to the forehead press.**

"You'll come," she says, and then he leaves her in the forest.

**Which is another image I love, Missy, all in purple and out of her time and space and an enslaver of humanity, sort of left - unbalanced, because the Doctor's just done something quite loving and gentle to her (the forehead press, praise be to the forehead press) and then just sort of gone. She knows something's up, but isn't gonna push further until he does or doesn't come to the dance. But she's slightly off kilter.**

 

*** * ***

 

once upon another time in nazi-occupied france

 

The earth is spinning 1600 kilometres every sixty minutes, hurtling around Sol at 108,000 kilometres per hour. The solar system moves828, 000 kilometres in the same amount of time, and the galaxy moves at 973,331 and Missy's being spun, the man's hands are warm, too warm, feverish, on her waist, at 4,300,000 kilometres per hour through the universe. She can waltz now, prefers that to the foxtrot, so much better the drums are gone.  **So. First, shoutout to the folks on tumblr who helped me do the maths for that bit. So. The Ninth Doctor. Has that monologue about being able to feel the Earth move. I like the idea of Missy (who hasn't got a home in the sense the Doctor has the TARDIS, has Earth, has Darillium with River) never quite feeling settled on Earth and really, really being aware of how the Earth moves around the sun and through space. And the more maths it has, the more it heightens the *world stopping* moment when the Doctor does show up.**

And then, at 4,300,000 kilometres per hour, the Doctor arrives, and for a count of four heartbeats (two sets of two, diastole-diastole-systole-systole) everything goes still and quiet. Four heartbeats at her current rate is just over a second; she blinks and the Doctor gives her a half wave and a smile, his teeth wonderfully protuberant, and the soldier is spinning her again and the band finishes on a crescendo.  **Earthworms have five hearts and I actually spent a bit of time trying to figure out how their hearts beat (are they all in sync or….) and then I was like "fuck this" and so basically Time Lord hearts go (heart1)suck-(heart2)suck-(heart1)pump-(heart2)pump. Or pump-pump-suck-suck, and in my head this means they'd have what we think is a fast pulse? Because they've got two slowish ones. I don't think there's anything solid in the show to support or deny this theory.**

**And I still don't get how worms hearts work.**

The soldier dips her and Missy catches herself on his shoulders, runs one hand down his jaw, cups his face.  **I love cupping faces. If I could, I'd write a novel called "Face Cupping" and there'd be all these pictures of people getting their faces cupped…it's basically second only to forehead touching.**

"My brother is here," she says, and the soldier lets her up. Missy smiles at him, watches him watch her with interest. "I'll go say hello, see if he's coming in."

"He's not coming in?"

"He's not a big dancer anymore."  **Because he's sad Clara died or whatever.**

"Good, then I don't have to share you," the Nazi says - she really should find out his name, but that requires effort she can't be bothered to expend. "Hurry back." **Taste that 1940s view of women.**

She knows he watches her go. This is a great dress - she went to the tailor yesterday, this afternoon. It's still purple, but period-appropriate. **I'm always iffy about taking the Doctor/Missy out of their "regular" clothes but I feel like because she's pretending to be human, with a brother, she'd go this extra mile.** The Doctor is waiting outside smiles wider as she approaches, takes her hand and spins her around as they go outside into the evening mist. **I really love this image, Missy and the Doctor dancing into the mist, the unknown.** The Doctor leads off to the side, out of sight of people from inside the dance hall. He looks nervous. **I just want Twelve to dance once on the show. Just once. Not even with Missy.**

**With Missy.**

"Where have you been?" she asks.

He thinks, and inside the band starts up again with a similar tune, something with a bit of bounce.

"Do you want to dance?" Missy asks, and he shakes his head.

"Around," he says. "The markets on Thotht. Gave some strategy advice to the rebels in the Keltnenar wars. Pizza with Michaelangelo."

"Did you find your bunny?"

The Doctor looks confused for a second. "Wh - ah, no. No. I've just been around. Thinking. I'm not coming in, I just wanted to check you hadn't - "

"No, I haven't murdered any Nazis, dear. It just gets messy when they're in power." **A pragmatist. On her days off, at least.**

The Doctor tucks his hands into his pockets, looks at his feet. "I have an offer for you."

"Always an exciting and usually dangerous thing. What is it?"

"Can we walk?" The Doctor gestures into the dark, offers his arm.

Missy rolls her eyes, takes it. "This better be good. Are there lasers?"

"Not currently, but lasers can be tabled."

They walk down the darkened street, Missy's heels clicking on the cobbles. The shops are dark; only a few lights in the houses are on. Everyone's either at the dance or staying well away from the Nazis - that'll serve them well, when the war is over. **You can look up what people did to collaborators after liberation, because it wasn't fun.** Missy takes a deep breath of the chilly night air. The Doctor wends them round a corner and up a side-street, presumably towards his TARDIS. Missy clicks her tongue. There's one second-story window lit up that throws both of them into dramatic, noir-esque shadow. **Anyway again yeah they're in the dark and removed from the people dancing because it slightly emphasises their alienness.**

"Doctor, are you going to-"

"Do you want to travel together for a while?" the Doctor chokes out. **And** **he's doing this in the dark because he's ashamed, just so you know. And if she rejects him, which Simm!Master did do, he wants to be able to vanish.**

Missy stops, turns to face him.

"What do you want?"

The Doctor's face, half hidden in the darkness, falls. "Company, Missy." **ASHAMED. WORRIED SHE'LL REJECT HIM. ASHAMED.**

"Can't find a human for your entertainment?"

"I don't want a human. I want someone who can take care of themselves, who knows what they're doing-"

"Is willing to commit minor homicides and coups on your behalf so you don't have to feel all guilty and sad-"

"I don't want you to do that - I don't want anyone to do that," the Doctor sighs, steps back and leans against the wall of the butcher's shop. "Apart from the TARDIS, you're probably the most constant thing in my universe."

"That's sad," Missy says. "I mean, it's the same for me, but damn is that sad."

"And with the Time Lords back and being - themselves - maybe the best thing for us isn't to fall back into old habits. Habits like-"

"Actually, if we're discussing this, you leaving me to burn to death is something I wouldn't like to return to." Missy crosses her arms. "This is certainly a weekend of conversations I didn't want to have."

"That happened - once."

"Twice, I count defeating Rassilon for you as burning to death. I got crisped up in the process. What? It counts." **The other time was the infamous "Won't you show mercy to your own ______?" in Planet of Fire.**

They stand in the darkness of the alleyway for a moment. The Doctor scuffs his boot along the gutter. Missy straightens her dress. **Immortal, genocidal fourteen year olds.**

"Cup of tea?" the Doctor says finally. "My TARDIS is around the corner."

"Right."

 

*** * ***

 

Missy likes the green kitchen with the really big sink; this Doctor likes a 20th century-styled white tile affair that for whatever reason, has a washing machine next to the dishwasher. **That's Clara's kitchen, by the way. There's nothing to Missy's kitchen, if that makes sense, it's just big sinks are practical.** They end up settling on one that's modelled after the height of Edwardian wealth and taste, but without the downsides of the same era. There's an electric kettle that matches the decor.

"Whatever tea you have is fine," says Missy. "Unless it's that stuff with cranberries. I hate cranberries." **This is genuinely just like an arbitrary gripe, I don't know why I picked cranberries.**

The Doctor nods, head bent over the cups.

"You don't want to fall back into both of us roaming about the universe, only meeting when you happen over one of my projects - don't scoff, that's a fine word to use," Missy says, "Or having the occasional sexual-tension-laden phone call to tide us over. You're lonely, Doctor. My dear fellow. You poor chap."

"Do you want biscuits?" **British to the end.**

"Yes please." Missy drums her fingers on the table. **Shoutout to me for resisting the urge to have her drum four times.** "You're not looking to fix me again, are you?"

"No, no I'm not."

"This isn't a Clara-related grief-induced idea of madness?"

"It's a Clara-and-Gallifrey-motivated concept we've both been kicking around on and off for a good few centuries." The kettle boils, the Doctor fills the cups. "The way we always wanted, when we were younger."

Missy gets up and finds the biscuits in the second cupboard. They're odd oat-and-golden-syrup with coconut concoctions. She arranges them on a plate, dumps them in the middle of the table and sits back down again, chewing.  **The biscuits are ANZAC Biscuits, which is the laziest bit of symbolism I've ever done. They're biscuits made and eaten in Australia and New Zealand and were supposedly eaten by their troops (the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) during WW1, though they didn't eat the modern recipe. They're from WW1, the Doc and Missy are old enemies. Also I figure Teghan made them, which is why they taste like the 1980s.**

"I think. Missy. If we could stop fighting-"

"I like the fighting. The fighting is what we do. It's an intellectual challenge in a universe that continually lacks anything more interesting."

"I like this, Missy," says the Doctor, and presses his palm against the bench. "I know you do too. And the fighting - a bit. A tiny bit." **He does, dark-Doctor style. It's an intellectual challenge for both of them.** Missy narrows her eyes at him. "You know me better than anyone, and I know you. I remember what you said. I want my friend back as well."

Missy nibbles on another biscuit, proffers one to the Doctor. He takes it, examines it.

"I have no idea where these came from."

"They taste like the 1980s," Missy says.

The Doctor brings the mugs over and sits opposite her. She takes her cup and clasps her hands around it.

"You want to live and travel together again? Because that ended so well last time." She pauses, slurps her tea. "I assume shackles come into this somewhere."

"Not unless you want them," the Doctor deadpans, and Missy snorts. "No, you assume wrong. Part-time. Casual basis. When one of us needs - or wants to - see the other. I don't like coming across you when you're in the middle of ruling, and you've never appreciated me-"

"Rejecting my generous, magnanimous offers to let you build a decent society on some of the most backwater planets in the universe, bringing knowledge and - " Missy peters out, drinks some more tea. "We'd be dating again."

"We never dated, Missy."  **Time Lord courtship is a door that shall remain closed, this evening.**

"Stepping out. We used to read poetry to each other. I built you a binary load-lifter translator." **BLLTs are a Star Wars: Episode IV reference.**

"I didn't need a BLLT," the Doctor says.  **If you take one 'L' out of there, it's a sandwich, and I find that funny.**

"You wanted one."  **I feel like at the end of the day, the Master/Mistress thinks they can give the Doctor what he wants and help bring him over to their side, and the Doctor thinks he can be the person the Master/Mistress needs to get better (come over to his side). This is a different iteration of that; it was Koschei giving Theta something that Koschei enjoyed creating, and Theta liked having. It was all give, no take back then. Which in itself is unhealthy, but at least no one died. Well, someone died.**

The Doctor smiles, and looks decades younger. "I did. They were good times. It won't be the same, Missy, of course. But being alone hasn't worked for either of us, and Gallifrey isn't an option. I don't want to fall in with another human, another mortal again, I'm so - so, sick of it. It hurts. And it hurts me when you show up and wilfully destroy things when you know you're a better engineer and a better builder than that."

Missy gives him a funny look.

"All the best war-makers in history have wanted to build something. Don't you want to create instead of destroy? And don't you dare say create an empire."  **I had a point to make about Rommel here, but it's gone. And there was something about Lieutenant-General John Monash from WW1, because he was an engineer after the war and apparently tore off his uniform once his service was finished. "Fuck war," he didn't say, but I paraphrased. "I'm going to build a ton of shit and make this country of Australia good and modern."**

"Creating stuff has never worked out for me," Missy mumbles, and starts fiddling with her brooch again. "You know that."

This isn't a new conversation either - it's just new they're both in vaguely the right mental state to actually consider it, at least on a temporary basis. He's got no human hangers-on; she's not tied to a chair, he's not tied to a chair, she's not controlling any planets or people. As far as he can tell. This would usually be the point where Missy gives up and leaves, or they end up having sex and one of them - whoever's TARDIS it isn't - slopes off the next morning after breakfast.

At that, Missy looks up, raises an eyebrow. **I just find this image funny.**

"No," says the Doctor lowly, and she grins. "I'm not - you know what I'm like now, it's not about the sex, I like being close to you. **Touch her forehead Doctor. DO IT.** We can make pancakes later."

"How many times have you gone down this train of thought?" Missy asks.

The Doctor shakes himself. "Far too many."

"I like listening to your hearts," says Missy. "They're one of my few constants in the universe." **Calls back to the Doctor saying she's one of his few constants along with the TARDIS.**

"It's just an idea. We've both had it a few times along the way."

Missy breathes out, shakes herself and stares into the middle distance. The Doctor reaches across to take her hand, and she puts a biscuit in it instead.  **Missy not wanting to deal with romantic shit like that lasts about one more chapter, which I kind of regret if I'm honest, but can justify once she gets pregnant because hormones and psychic messiness.**

"You're not saying we should shack up in your TARDIS and play domestic bliss-"

"I think blitz might be a more appropriate description for that. But Missy." **I didn't come up with the idea of "domestic blitz" I don't know who did (I've seen it several places, like even on TV), but someone did think I invented it, so I'm saying this here.** The Doctor says. "You and me. Time and space. This is what you wanted in the graveyard, I remember. Is this what you still want?"

"I have time and space."

The Doctor thinks for one second he's really mistimed his pitch for this idea, until Missy smiles softly and puts her hand over his and the biscuit.

"And I get you," she says.

The Doctor relaxes, feels the biscuit softening and the honey melting into his palm. **The honey is a metaphor for something. Probably their conflict with each other, in a small way. Or it could just be honey.** They sit. Missy holds her tea in her free hand, sips. The Doctor picks up his own mug.

"What now?" Missy asks.

"What do you want to do?" he says.

"You'll want to put the TARDIS controls on isomorphic," Missy says abruptly. "Or you'll be lying awake every night listening for me sneaking into the console room and trying to nick it." **This is kind of to bring us back to reality that this is still the Mistress and the Doctor.**

"You have your own TARDIS now," says the Doctor.

"I'm petty, dear," Missy says. "But then the real question is, what next?"

"What would you like to do?"

They both look around the kitchen. The Doctor takes his hand away and brushes the crumbled, sticky bits of biscuit into his saucer.

"Have you got a pack of cards?" Missy asks.

"I do," says the Doctor. "Let's go look."

It's a good a place to start as any.

 

**Now, this began life as a one-shot and then was going to be maybe three long chapters - like skipping to visit number 40, more or less, so the scene with the mushrooms on that planet with the mushrooms and the Doctor poisoning himself, was actually one of the very earliest scenes written, and then it just kept getting pushed back further and further and edited slightly. The last bit to really get added was the scene where Missy dreamt of their younger selves, and I was very iffy on that, in case it made things too obvious. Then I was like, "there's more here" and twelve chapters later, I'd accidentally set up the Doctor and Missy on some deserted planet with two kids. Funny how that happens.**

**That this started as a very open-ended one-shot (you get to decide if this concept works for them!) persisted to the very end though, which is why I left it kind of open whether the Doc and Missy would last the hundred years on that other planet, with or without the children. Part of me, as I said in the final chapter, wanted to keep going and going and showing the kids growing up. But it's up to you.**

**The other reason I wrote this as an extended fic in the end, is that "the Doctor and the Master/the Mistress shack up in the Doctor's TARDIS, end up shagging and then have a fight because the Master/Mistress did [X] and then end up living happily ever after" is a fine tradition in the fandom and I thought it was Twelve and Missy's turn. But. Two things to me, are often questionable (to me, again this is a subjective opinion) in those fiches and people sort of brush over them -**

**The Master/Missy would never, ever give up their TARDIS (they always end up on the Doc's TARDIS for obvious reasons), in my opinion. The Master is at the end of the day, fiercely self-reliant but seeks acceptance. Their TARDIS is their TARDIS is their TARDIS and the Doctor wouldn't give up his, so why would they have to give up theirs.**

**If they were to team up permanently (for a given value of permanence, happy-ever-after style) the Master usually ends up being the one to "give up" the aspects that make them, the Master. Stop invading, stop trying to rule, stop trying to create a society that accepts them as a ruler, stop trying to control. (My exception here would maybe be Simm!Master in the End of Time, but he was very very sick and fundamentally broken in many ways by the end of the episode.) And then it's no longer, to me, the Doctor and the Master, it's the Doctor and the artist-formerly-known-as-the-Master. Now, that character drift happens in this fic too in a big way, and I had to find a place I felt okay making Missy carry the baby (she can't get rid of it, it's too late, she'd die if she tried and doesn't know how many regenerations she has left, if at all) and making the Doctor break away from his human connections, at least for a while - it's not a coincidence that Lahni is from the Great and Bountiful Human Empire as opposed to Earth proper.**

**So writing this was an attempt in part at making the team-up (on a potentially permanent basis) work, but at the end of the day, there's a time limit on the Doctor and Missy's 'pause' on that planet, and they both know it. They could extend it, they could shut it off, they could do it once every thousand years. And that's the medium I ended up finding.**

**I don't know if I pulled it off, but at the end of the day, I'm very proud of this fanfic. It was 98000 words I never thought I'd get through. I'm currently working on a novel that's one-third of the length (as of October 2016) and reminding myself that "Nazi Occupied France was 98000 words and you did THAT!" is a huge motivator.**

**Again, I want to thank everyone who kudosed, commented, proofread, or even just clicked on this once, for reading. It's one of the most commented on fics in the Twissy ship (the most? I think it was for a while), and the calibre and quality of the comments - I got essays about this fic, on my writing and French cuisine, and the Doctor and the Master, one of the best ships around - and the comments were truly wonderful and inspiring and absolutely ruined me for posting other fic where I now expect 1000 words of comments for 6000 words of Missy and the Doctor bantering about the Most Dangerous Game. Well, not really. But there's nothing better than feedback for a writer, and I got it in massive droves in a place I wasn't really expecting.**

**Thanks again, and if you got through this whole thing, let me know!**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 4 DVD Commentary

**Yeah, I had a lot of fun writing the other commentary so I'm doing one for chapter four as well!**

 

> We will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
> 
> **I have a nice little copy of the Little Prince that I bought when I visited France. I don't speak French. Lucky it's in English. I just like linking it with Doctor Who because it's a kind of similar very fairytale take on space travel and technology. Or something. It's about love and home and exploration and bravery and I really like that. I think I've used the Little Prince in other Doctor Who fics.**

The Doctor leans against the console, looks around the quiet TARDIS. Looks out the doors, at the silver sand-plains of Cordementha V. There's something dripping, deep inside the TARDIS. He shoves his hands into his pockets, strides down into the corridors. Fixes the drip.

Later, the Doctor returns toting one of his guitars - a red Rickenbacker 370/12 - and his Magpie amp. **"Friends who play guitar, what's a really nice electric guitar?"** The sound echoes across the plains. One of the local animals sticks its snout around the door, snuffles curiously at the TARDIS floor. The Doctor grins, plays an F-Sharp chord that makes its ears (all four of them) prick up. He chuckles. Starts riffing and watches the rest of the herd gather round the door, teetering on their stilt-like legs, watching him with their big, wet black eyes.

"It's not so bad," he says, and turns the amp up.

**Look, he can't just be travelling/repairing the TARDIS ALL THE TIME when he's alone. I like this moment. But yeah the main point of this chapter was to get them over what happened with the Corporation, their last fight, and get them to the point of banging. Which takes a bit of manoeuvring, which I tried to signpost.**

_* * *_

_Visit Five_

 It takes a few months, and a couple of near-misses. UNIT catches Missy and she escapes before the Doctor can even turn around. He breaks first, for different reasons. Calls Missy, because there's no one else.  **This theme pops up occasionally in this fic and some others I've posted on here - what happens to the Doctor's (and Missy's) TARDISes when they literally run out of parts? It would take a long time (I reckon) for this to occur, but there must be a point where the storage rooms that are (presumably) on the TARDISes run dry and they have to start MacGyvering new parts out of scraps.**

**I'll write a proper story about it one day. ONE DAY.**

**Anyway so in the previous chapter, one of Missy's schemes went belly-up and millions are dead and starving and the Doctor confronted her about it, and they had a fight (and Missy ate an apple, which is symbolic if you wanna read it as a Biblical thing, or as an apple a day keeping the Doctor away, and it's about the Doctor suppressing the elements of himself that make him, the Doctor - this isn't just about Missy. He also grew apples when he was shacked up with River). Them discussing Missy's shenanigans is one of those hurdles I really wanted this fic to deal with in the subgenre of Doctor/Master-shacking-up fix - what do they do about Missy's plots and plans and murders?**

"Remember how you told me to replace those screws or I'd die?" he rests his hand on the console, toggles one of the switches. Nothing. The click echoes around the darkened console room. **The Doctor, alone and in a dark TARDIS, has only one person to turn to.**

"Just go visit the Brengans, Doctor."

"I'm not….I can't," says the Doctor, glancing around. "The uh, TARDIS isn't letting me outside."

The line crackles. Missy must be very far away. "Where are you?"

The 'where' she uses in Gallifreyan encompasses both physical coordinates and the local time on that planet, as well as requesting the inclusion of a local landmark, if one is available. It's slang, more or less, from their Academy days, and the Doctor smiles grimly. Gives the planet - Klewahr - and the local time. Tells her about the large clock he can hear chiming from inside, because even the scanner isn't working. **~a friendship beyond anything humans could understand~**

"Great. I know that village," Missy says. "I'll see you soon."

It takes them nine hours to open the TARDIS doors, working from both sides, and it's nighttime when they finally swing apart. Missy tosses down her scanner with a grunt, silhouetted against the moonlight. She smooths down her hair, but the loose strands wave in the sea breeze.  **So here it's all about the Doctor looking but not touching her, and you find out later he really likes it when Missy's dressed-down, like sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned, scandalous. So her hair is a bit messy, and he notices but doesn't notice really that he's noticing.**

"I'll go to the Brengans right now - " the Doctor begins.

Wordlessly, Missy reaches into her inner pocket, holds out an envelope full of screws between her index and middle fingers. The Doctor takes it, put it in his own coat. **It's implied here - no skin on skin contact. And they end the chapter by banging.**

"Thank you," he says. "Are you coming in? Or do I have to drag you?"  **I doubt we'll ever see it in the show because of the visual of a man beating up a lady, but I don't think the Doctor and Missy would hesitate to swing a punch at each other, ala Ten and Simm, if things were tense enough. So they'd be practically physical. But to show that on film looks a bit awkward, so.**

The TARDIS buzzes angrily when she steps inside. Missy steps out again, clenching her jaw and her fists. The Doctor steps out after her, the evening annoyingly balmy and pleasant, the light breeze tinged with the smell of the ocean. **Don't you hate it when the weather doesn't match your mood?** He keeps one foot inside, remembering the TARDIS could well easily slam the doors shut again. He's not falling for that one again.

"There's um," she says. Points. "There's a nice church. In the village. The ceremony's open air, and it goes till midnight. There's a buffet. **My kind of church.** I'll wait for you, till you've put those in. It shouldn't take long, even for you." **Get rekt Doctor.**

It takes the Doctor forty minutes, and he talks to the TARDIS the entire time, asking her not to lock him out again. He finds the crowded church garden just before eleven, where Missy is sitting on a bench pretending to read the local paper, ignoring the families and people milling around her. There's a paper plate with the remnants of some potato salad on her lap. **I feel like food humanises people. I like potato salad.**

"Hey," the Doctor says, sitting beside her, looks at her intently. His voice is tired. "Hi. Thank you. You didn't have to do that."  **So those deer things at the start of the chapter. Like Earth deer, where they're really timid and you have to slowly draw them out. He's rewarding Missy for that tiny thing she did (in a very bitchy manner), even if she doesn't deserve that reward.**

Missy turns, opens her mouth, closes it. She breathes out slowly through her nose.

"Help me with this crossword," Missy says finally.  **I realised the other day I kind of assume that if the Doctor and Missy watched Letters and Numbers/Countdown, and it was on their level, Missy would be better at the word games and they'd be more or less on par with the maths. Missy works with anagrams a lot, as we all know.**

 

They don't talk about their last meeting.  **This is kind of fulfilling their contract, in that they try to just move past and ignore what Missy did. Later on, the Doctor revisits the damage the Corporation did to try and make more amends.**

 

_*** * *** _

_Visit Six_

Missy comes round toting a case of supplies, and they take a few hours to replace most of the worn-out cabling in the console room. **This is Missy, both bored, but also wanting to make her own form of amends, further down the track.** The TARDIS is reluctant to have her, and that's putting it nicely. After the fourth electric shock, Missy throws down the wires, kicks the console.

"Fine. Fine! I'll leave you to it!" she shouts, and storms off into the hallways.

The Doctor rolls out from under the console. "Missy?"

"Just leave it!" she calls over her shoulder.

There's a crash as she throws her pliers at something. The Doctor winces and the TARDIS shudders. He stands clumsily, puts down his own pliers, taps the console.

"You're not helping," he says to the TARDIS, a little more harshly than he'd like.

Sighs heavily. He rolls back under, unscrews another panel. "I want this to work for all three of us. I really think she wants this to work. She hasn't got anyone else either."

The TARDIS is silent. The panel comes loose, and the Doctor reaches inside, finds another set of worn wires. He clips them out, rolls out from underneath the console. Finds the right sort of wire, strips it, rolls back under. **One of the hardest bits of writing about TARDIS repair is just…naming and finding shit for people to do. Which is another reason why I've not written the "what happens when our TARDISes run out of parts" fic.**

"I'll be finished soon. You know, Missy brought all this round. And I checked it over. You're safe. It's going to be fine."

No response. The Doctor attaches the new wires and screws the panel back in. Raps it with his knuckles. The TARDIS makes a low whir that echoes around the console room.

"Yeah, I figured," he mutters. Lies there for a moment, looking up at the workings of the console. **I wanted to reaffirm how tight the Doc and the TARDIS are, more than anyone else in the show.** "You let her in last time. That was my fault, and I'm sorry."

Silence. Distantly, he's sure he hears Missy smashing something else.

"That better not be my guitars."

He tilts his head, listens more intently. No, she's found the fine china room.

The Doctor rolls out from under the console, starts packing up the tools. He slides the toolbox back into its slot, clambers up the stairs to his armchair and sits down heavily. Presses one hand to the wall.

"Missy knew me first, remember," he tells the TARDIS. "She's possessive. You're both possessive. I care about both of you, and I can look after myself." The Doctor pauses, swears he can still hear Missy stomping around. "If you're pulling a labyrinth, please stop. She did fix the mustard machine, and we both know that's a miracle in itself." **I did love thinking and writing about the Doctor-Mistress-TARDIS trifecta, because they're the three (onscreen, until the end of s9) surviving elements of Gallifrey, ancient threads that go back to before the show's beginning.**

There's a distinct change in the air pressure and the temperature rises a few degrees.  **It's warm when he's safe in the TARDIS, cold when it's not, and that's obvious but I'm leaving this annotation here.**

"Thanks, dear," the Doctor says, knocking on the wall. "I appreciate it."

He stays seated for a few more minutes, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth. Brushes his fingertips along one of the bookshelves in easy reach, enjoys the smooth polish of the wood. Then he stands, claps his hands.

"We're going to replace the scanner screen eventually," the Doctor says, heads down the stairs and out into the hallways of the TARDIS. He traces his fingers along the walls as he walks. "Yes, we. It's a two-person job. I still need to find the right kind of crystal. Just so you're prepared."

The Doctor checks the crystal room - mostly intact, the music room - safe and sound and mostly tidy, and three kitchens before stopping, turning on the spot and frowning. **I just noticed the massive fuckup with the hyphens there whoops.** He checks his watch, goes back into the last kitchen and makes two coffees. Then he takes one of the spiral staircases upwards, feet loud on the metal steps.

**So this scene was originally written after I'd just finished/was on the tail end of finishing a massive piece of work on WWI tanks, and there was nowhere for that info to go but here. This scene was an experiment kind of in how "lush" I could make my writing, how descriptive, as I really do prefer skin-and-bones prose and dialogue. Mostly because I'm lazy, it's not a stylistic decision.**

The TARDIS has a dozen or so biodomes, all different slices of outdoors from around the universe. It takes him a few attempts, but he finds Missy smoking off one of the balconies that overlooks the tangled scrub of the Moon of Troromon, where the trees and ferns all sprout purple, orange and yellow fragrant blooms. It's warm out here as well, more humid than he'd like, and the scent of the flowers fills the air.

Missy doesn’t turn around as he approaches, merely holds a cigarette over her shoulder between two of her fingers. **Why did I make them smoke.**

“No, thanks,” the Doctor says, putting their coffees down on the small garden table with a clink. “I thought you quit.”

Missy turns, leans on the railing and stares through him. She bites the end of her thumb, eyes blank.  **Missy does the thumb biting thing when she's feeling affectionate/loving towards the Doctor. Watch out for it, I was actually weirdly proud of how consistent I was with that tick.** Puts the cigarette back in her mouth.

"TARDIS won't like it," the Doctor says, waiting.

“You used to share my pipes,” Missy says faintly, as if she didn't hear him. "I don't know what happened to all of them. I had one with an ivory handle. I thought I left some here." She takes a drag, finally meets his gaze. "Do you get more sanctimonious as the years go by? Or was it your humans? Or Gallifrey, burning?" Missy exhales smoke in a cloud. **S/O to RTD, who burnt everything in this damn show, from Gallifrey to Japan to Gallifrey to - there was something else, but I'm one beer in on very little sleep and it escapes me.**

It's weirdly attractive, which the Doctor tries to ignore.  **Moving from not even touching, to acknowledging (then dismissing) that he's aesthetically attracted to Missy as well as just…she's the Master. He likes the Master, he loves the Master, always has, even when it's really inconvenient for everyone involved.** "Can we talk about something else?"

"It was the humans, wasn't it. Nicotine stains on the fingers eventually go out of style."

The Doctor sits on one of the deckchairs Zoe must have dragged out here years ago, puts his feet up, takes his coffee and stirs it. Missy stays standing, turns back to look over the garden. 

The Doctor drinks slowly, studies the shape of her legs under her skirt.  **I was very happy with that line.** The tip of Missy's cigarette glows dully red and he can just smell the flowers under the smoke. She flicks ash over the railing, crosses her legs at the ankle. The Doctor taps his ring against his mug, enjoys the clinking noise.  **I've written essays on how much I love that Peter Capaldi refuses to take his wedding ring off. ESSAYS. Here is a thesis statement: I love how much Peter Capaldi clearly and openly adores his wife and marriage. I also love that Elaine Collins clearly loves him back. It's something really important to me when I've had relatively little healthy romantic relationships around me in my personal life. It gives me hope for myself. I love how unabashedly they love each other.** Takes another sip.

“You could just ask,” Missy says finally.

“Fine, I will,” says the Doctor.

Missy turns, cigarette in one hand, cupping the elbow of that arm in her other hand. Her eyebrow quirks. It’s a carefully chosen pose. The Doctor points at her coffee, and she nods.

"What did you break?" he says.

Missy shakes her head. "Nothing important. Some plates. I'm sorry." She clenches her jaw. "I'm trying."

"I know." The Doctor takes another drink. "You're doing well. I think this is my fault." It's not, it's both of theirs. It's just easier to take the blame.

She raises an eyebrow. "Do, go on."

"We've spent much more time, in here on the TARDIS, than anywhere else. We should go out more, not let the tension build between you two, between us. It was - " the Doctor looks into his coffee-cup. "Thoughtless of me."

"Overly optimistic is probably a better way of phrasing that." Missy leans back on the railing. "Do you have anything in mind? Earth, as a wild first guess."

The Doctor thinks. One of the better parts of travelling with Missy is that she's not by any means delicate. That is. She has all the knowledge he's ever had access to, the same know-how, the same ability, shared by no other race, to read how time can ebb and flow. And a much better ability to push into the morally grey areas without feeling guilty about it. He's taken at least eight companions to Nazi Germany, accidentally and deliberately; seven of them suggested assassinating Hitler. **I wasn't quite happy with how this turned out but I knew I wouldn't be able to make this point without rewriting a fair whack of this scene but I am lazy, and Hitler kind of ties back to Nazi Occupied France so hey. I was trying to reestablish Missy as just - apart from the rest of his companions, even River. River is the Doctor's equal*, Missy is the Doctor's match. A perfectly matched pair of pests.**

*** For a given value of equal, something something series six, something something. Let's not do this here.**

When the Doctor and the Master visited there as youths, they were both just content to watch the Valkyrie plot fail. It's not ideal, but a near miss was good enough for his conscience, and for the web of time.

The Doctor cups his chin in his hand, thinks of all the times he knows the Master has seen over the years. Missy smokes, watches him think. He makes up his mind.

“The first tank battle on Earth,” the Doctor says thoughtfully. “Took place in April 1918 near Villers-Bretonneux.”  **[strumming guitar] and it was probably relatively quite unimpressive but at the time most of the men involved did seem to realise they were in the first tank battle in history. [picks up laser pointer] anyway they basically just took potshots at each other until a couple of the tanks broke down, from memory.**

“Never been there,” Missy says. "1914 to 1919 is just so muddy, I've never liked it."

“We could go have a look.”

Missy gives him a strange look. “You actually want to go and watch a World War One battle? Who are you and what have you done with the Doctor?”

The Doctor sighs heavily, gives in and holds out his hand. Missy puts the denuding cigarette into it, and he takes a drag, hands it back. Smoke tickles his throat and his lungs as he holds it in. He lets his breath out slowly, watches Missy put the cigarette back between her lips.  **That's an indirect kiss yo.** She raises her eyebrows at him.  **So why did I make them smoke. To misquote Kiara, "I can really picture Capaldi's Doctor with a cigarette, it really fits his aesthetic." Perhaps I should have had Missy smoking pipes or cigarettes in holders, Cruella de Ville (DeVille?) style. Part of the reason smoking was a bonus in this fic, was that I could have Missy need to stop smoking, because she thinks she may be pregnant, and that was a juggle of a scene to get through when it came down to it. That wasn't planned. At the end of the day, I think I did it to hammer home that this is the Doctor and Missy when they're far, far away from the Doctor's companions, from humans, and by proxy, us. This is the Doctor slowly being pulled away from his better self by Missy, and the cigarette is symbolic of that.**

**That said the Master did smoke onscreen in the Delgado era.**

“I thought you might be interested-”

“Oh believe me. I am.”

“It’s a fixed point,” the Doctor says. "Pretty much all of it. Except what the Black Hand did, Europe was a powder keg."

“Most of World War One is. I see it all with this great sparkly green tint,” says Missy. “It smells like the concept of industry.”  **Just like…perhaps the Doctor can taste on the air what year it is, feel if it's a fixed point or not. Maybe Missy sees it and smells it instead. We also see her tasting it later on, in a scene which is, in hindsight, kind of gross.**

“It might do good, for both of us. To get out of the TARDIS. Be good for the TARDIS, to have a break."

Missy perches on the end of his deckchair, stubs the cigarette out on the floor and steps on it. The noise of her shoe grinding into the concrete makes the Doctor grimace. **This is just me, I hate this noise.** Missy takes her coffee, drains half the cup in one go and coughs. “Counter offer.”

The Doctor makes a ‘go on’ gesture.

“Still tanks, still 1918. Le Hamel. 93 minute show, clear beginning, middle and end, apparently, and I know for a fact there is an excellent bistro in town a couple of decades beforehand. It’s a fixed point too, the Allies needed Hamel to practise their assault for der Schwarze Tag. Need the Black Day to defeat the Germans, so Germany and the other great Empires can fall, so the Weimar Republic fails, so Hitler rises, so World War II,” she recites, slipping between informal German and formal Gallifreyan and a bit of Northern Osnansch as she goes. **I've always felt Hamel, as it did only take 93 minutes from go to woah, would make a really cool almost real-time film, you know, with twenty minutes at the start and end to show Lt Gen. Monash like, chilling out, and the preparations. And then the conditions of the Germans, which were quite awful by that point.**

"Humanity learns to split the atom and discovers DNA almost a century before original best-case projections, letting them make their way out into the universe in the decades that follow while other major players in the Sol region are left in the dust." Missy rolls her eyes. "Typical success story. You know how it is."

The Doctor thinks for a moment, finishes his coffee and puts the cup on the table.

“Sounds good.”

“I thought so.”  **I like how casual this is, after Missy has that whole Time Lordy/Lady spiel in three languages about history and the nature of time, and then just "yeah sure I'll get some popcorn."**

They sit for a minute. Missy rests her hand on his knee briefly, squeezes, then lights another cigarette. The smoke curls up between them. **And the desire, she is there. KNEE TOUCHING much lower on the ranking than forehead pressing but KNEE TOUCHING.**

"Do you want one?"

The Doctor shakes his head, and Missy quirks her head, twists her lips. He says airily, "I quit. It's not smoking if you don't light it yourself."  **This is sort of how the Doctor justifies remaining friends/partners with her, in the aftermath of the last chapter/last two thousand years. He's always trying to help her a little, and happening to be shagging her while she happens to destroy a planet or something doesn't make it his fault.**

“I’m quitting,” Missy says. “Attempt 412. It’s not like I can’t just get another pair of lungs.” **The Mistress has been a main in four episodes of the Twelfth Doctor's era - 4, 12.**

“It’ll definitely stick this time,” the Doctor says dryly.

“Because you’re so good at avoiding the things that are bad for you,” Missy drawls, and exhales. **Missy is cigarettes. It's real subtle.**

 

_*** * *** _

_Visit Seven_

Missy moves a chess piece.

The Doctor studies the board. "This is a terrible place to concentrate." Outside, perfectly timed, something explodes. He winces.

"It's fine."

"I said outside the TARDIS. I don't think everywhere we go needs to be occupied by a foreign power."

"It's theming."

Missy grins as the Doctor looks up at her. He moves a piece. The noise - shouting, screaming, the occasional gunshot - outside the window gets louder. **This is just to reestablish Missy is a shit.**

"Did we really have to come to this time period to play chess?"

"Prague is lovely. 1968 was a great year," Missy says, taking one of his pawns. The Doctor scowls at her. "Fine. We'll leave when the tanks arrive."

 

_*** * *** _

_Visit Eight_

"You're late. You're never late for me. Is the TARDIS not moving again?"

"She's moody."

"Fine, where are you? Please don't say London, early 21st-century."

"It's not then."

"I'm waiting."

"…Cardiff."  **A nod to the fourth wall, obviously.**

"You're such an idiot.

"No, I'm not. I just - "

No, you know what you are? You're a half-wit."

"I'm not."

"Hey, hey hey. It's a compliment. At least fifty percent of you is positively brimming with wit."  **So yeah, banter to establish they're mates again, they're working back towards friendship and helping each other - the Doctor is much less shamed about admitting the TARDIS is moody here.**

 

_*** * *** _

_Visit Nine_

Missy finds him leaning against a lamppost, watching a work-crew make their way back onto the bridge skeleton, follows his gaze. Looks out over Sydney Harbour, squinting in the sun and the breeze, watching the waves. Missy hipchecks him. **So it's gone from no touching, to knee squeezing and cigarette sharing, to something that's really quite casual and friendly, almost flirty. We're getting up to the bangzone.**

"Your turn to pick," she says. "And you know how I feel about Australians." **Australians are foul.**

"Right. So. How would you like to work on a pitcrew at the 1976 Moroccan Grand Prix?"

"Is it my birthday?" Missy asks. "Wait, no. It's not MacLaren, is it?"

"It's Ferrari," the Doctor says, and watches her fist pump. He frowns. "Is it your birthday?"

"It is my birthday," Missy says, as if she's just remembered. "Huh."

"Happy birthday, then. You get on with Niki, don't you?"  **I figured Twelve got a birthday in the show, so Missy might as well get one here.**

"I get on with him better than you," says Missy.

"You're so similar," the Doctor says to himself.

Missy hipchecks him again.  **The banter. The flirting.I just wanted them to seem happy but still a little bit nervy around each other, like the early days of dating someone.**

 

_*** * *** _

_Visit Ten_

 It takes thirteen hours, four trips to three planets and two sets of anti-static, micro-fibre diamond-threaded gloves, but they successfully replace the crystal in his scanner screen. **Once again, writing about repairing bits of the TARDIS is hard, so I avoid it as much as possible.**

"Looks great," the Doctor says, running his thumb across the dials along the side. "It looks amazing."

"Should I leave you two alone?" Missy asks.

 

_*** * ***  _

_Visit Eleven_

In a random, grey alleyway in 2020s London, he finds Missy's TARDIS and knocks on the door. She opens it in opera gear from the 1870s, clutching a small leather bag.

"We never finished the Ring Cycle?" she says, and he holds up his hands. She squints. "We never finished the Ring Cycle."

"When did we start the Ring Cycle?"

"You were about five hundred. Not sure how old I was. Go get dressed. Pack a bag."

The Doctor frowns, points in the direction of his TARDIS. "Why am I packing a bag?"

"Bayreuth Festspielhaus. **I researched so much for this scene, I remember, and like none of the research made it in here.** I got hotel rooms nearby. Legally, and everything." Missy locks her TARDIS door behind her. Her dress is dark green, her hair carefully curled and piled on top of her head. **I picked green for a specific reason which now escapes me, but it's not Slytherin, please. No, not here.** She catches the Doctor's look. "Rooms. We're going to the performances in 1876. It takes four days. I'm not sharing a room and an opera box with you for four days." **She's a realist.**

"I can't even remember how it starts," the Doctor says, picking up one of her loose curls between his fingers, pulling it straight and letting it go. It bounces. Missy swats at him, produces the tickets. **So flirty, and it shows how familiar they're becoming with each other. You know?** He examines them. "Oh, we're seeing it from the beginning. Good?"

Missy shrugs. They start walking. "Come on, top hat. Tails. I'd wear them, but it's all a bit Tipping the Velvet these days. And this is such a pretty colour."  **The concept of Missy in that getup is a bit much for me to handle, and I don't think the Doctor would be very asexual around her if she rocked up dressed in a suit.**

"You'd look nicer in blue. Or red."  **Red, because Time Lords, and then she wears red in Russia where the Doctor meets Clara again.**

"That's nice, dear. Duly noted." **And noted it was.**

They round the end of the alley, and the Doctor's TARDIS is before them. "Right, right," he says, pausing at the door. "You know, jeans were invented in the 1870s as well."

"Not in Bavaria they weren't."

The Doctor steps back into his TARDIS. Missy checks her scanner, which shows a live image of a street about twenty feet away. The diner is still there, seventy years and an ocean out of place. She smirks. **This is so awkwardly worded, which is annoying, because if it was an actual episode, it would be SO EASY to show.**

"Missy, who's driving?" the Doctor shouts, poking his head out of the TARDIS. **MARRIED. SO MARRIED.**

"Me," Missy says, closing the screen. "I was going to say you, but we never take mine. So, we're taking mine."

"Fine by me."

 

_*** * *** _

_Visit Twelve - **yeah, they bang for the first time 'onscreen' in the twelfth visit, because Twelfth Doctor. I'm not proud.**_

"I can't deal with most of the Founding Fathers," the Doctor says. "I partied with them way too hard when I was younger. Hamilton. My God. Hamilton." **I actually wrote a fanfic where the Doctor gets drunk with Hamilton, it's on here somewhere. That wasn't a reference though, it was just - Hamilton is topical (was) and I'm down with the kiddies.** The Doctor finishes lacing up his boot, takes it off the railing. "I'm nearly ready, just let me get my scarf. What season is it when we're going?"

From where she's standing outside the TARDIS, smoking in 1940s summertime Hungary,  **let's appreciate this image - the last time we saw them, they were in the 1870s. Now they're dressed for winter in the late 1700s, and the Doctor's in the TARDIS in breeches while Missy's dressed for winter, outside, in wartime Hungary. I just like this image. I don't know.** Missy calls, "Thomas isn't like that. As long as Lafayette isn't with him."

"Is it winter?"

Missy steps into his line of vision, framed by the TARDIS doors, wearing a black overcoat over a purple dress, dark purple leather gloves, and a purple, pearl-embroidered hat. It's all a bit goth, but she makes it work.

"I'll get a proper coat," the Doctor says, shifting uncomfortably in his outfit. "I hate breeches, you know I hate breeches. Did you hate breeches?"

Missy nods, **because she's been a guy, remember,** leaning into the TARDIS. "Can you grab my purple scarf?" she calls.

"Hey, I told you not to smoke in here."  **The casualness! The flirting! There's nothing of consideration here, that's all I have to say!**

*** * ***

1787\. America establishes itself as separate from Britain. The First Fleet departs for Australia. Civil war erupts in the Dutch Republic. Discontent bubbles under the surface in France, about to boil over and bathe the country in blood.  **Everything happens so much, not just in the modern world, but in the past as well. Also it took me far too long to figure out what year to have Jefferson in France. I've read his entire biography by Meacham and I still couldn't figure it out. I'm terrible at maths and dates. And then I had to find other stuff that had happened in 1787, but I like it - there's the end of a revolution, the birth of a new colony, a war, and the dawn of another revolt. It's a nice little circle, in a way. It kind of sums up the close of the 18th century and summarises the long nineteenth century - the height of Empires and the French revolution, war, revolution, restoration, war, and more Empires.**

The Doctor sits with Thomas Jefferson in his Parisian drawing room, nursing a brandy and cringing. It had all started with a perfectly civilised lunch with lovely wine and a round of cribbage. **Google: games from 1780s cards.** Then poker, then cheat. Then, somehow, they'd ended up here, watching Missy and Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, invent what looked like the body shot. **This chapter's word count blew out because of the Marquis gag, but there was a reason I put it in there - I couldn't fucking figure out what to call him, because Lafayette would probably do but I didn't want to use Lafayette and I just find such long names amusing. So. Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette.**

"He's done many great things," Jefferson says apologetically. He's wearing pink breeches, a lemon-yellow shirt and a green coat, his hair an untamed mess. The Doctor feels quietly offended by his outfit, and can't figure out why. **It's because Missy said Thomas reminds her of the Doctor, aka, a shitty dresser - especially his Sixth self.** "America would not be the way it is today without him."

**"** **America has joined forces with the Allied Powers, and what we have of blood and treasure are yours. Therefore it is that with loving pride we drape the colors in tribute of respect to this citizen of your great republic. And here and now, in the presence of the illustrious dead, we pledge our hearts and our honor in carrying this war to a successful issue. Lafayette, we are here." -** **Charles E Stanton, the aide to General John Pershing of the United States Army during WWI, upon his arrival in Paris in July 1917.** **For some reason, I cry when I think of this speech. I think it's something to do with the romantic notions we all carry with us of revolution, and nationalism, which we are later dissuaded of. Regardless. Lafayette, we are here. And, I cry. This has nothing to do with anything, I just like using that quote. Perhaps it's something else to do with the long nineteenth century.**

"Same with Missy," says the Doctor, in the same tone. "Sorry, how did you actually meet her?"

**And it was here, I swore and wondered the same thing.**

"An issue in Alsace-Lorraine. A swarm of strange wooden beasts came pelting down the street at me and my companions. The Mistress, as she named herself, assisted in their demise with a device that spat flame and burnt them all to dust. I was intrigued, invited her to dinner and we have corresponded since. A remarkable woman."

"Huh," the Doctor says.  **He's huh-ing at two things - one, Missy kept in contact, but sort of figures Jefferson, probably (regardless of how you feel about him, let's not do this here) because he is one of the smartest men to have ever lived/also lived in fascinating times, is interesting enough to keep her mildly diverted. Two, she was helping people in Alsace-Lorraine (an area of oft-disputed territory between France and Germany, GOD I'M GOOD), with no benefit that the Doctor can see. Chances are, she was probably trying to chill and these wooden things were interrupting her chilltime, but hey.**

Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, pulls off his jacket and tosses it across the room. It's quickly scooped up, smoothed out by one of Jefferson's French servants. **Did specify servant here, as I believe Jefferson only took a few slaves over, including Sally Hemings and her brother.**

"How did you come to be acquainted with such a fascinating specimen?" Jefferson asks.  **Women are specimens, though I believe Jefferson was attracted to very capable, educated women throughout his life.**

"We were at school together," the Doctor says. "Occasionally we travel together, or meet up for a." He tries to describe Missy's modus operandi, gives up. He can't do it for his closest friends, let alone an ideological enemy. **I like how fewer fucks he gives around people he really doesn't want to like.** "We were at school together. Occasionally we come across similar issues to your wooden beasts and deal with them."

"And her husband doesn't mind? She mentioned her husband was a doctor."  **She would have said she was married to dissuade Jefferson from an attempted pursuit, at least one not on her terms. They probably shagged.** **¯\\_(** **ツ** **)_/¯**

"What husb - " the Doctor squints over the room at Missy's hands. Of course. She's wearing one of her rings on the human wedding finger today. "I guess I'm the husband then."  **He's casual about it because a) no humans that he cares about are around, and b) they've been so many things to each other, that this kind of confusion isn't exactly worrying to him. Like, they've been common-law married and best friends and enemies and you know this song I'll let you guys do the chorus. So why would this assumption bother him?**

"You guess?"

"It isn't a Christian marriage. Had it in a far-off land," the Doctor says, waving a hand, looking at his own ring finger.  **And he's wearing a ring in-universe, but it's not a wedding ring, so who knows. He's probably just thinking Missy made the same mistake. It's Doylist and Watsonian thinking - Peter Capaldi didn't want to take his wedding ring off; the Twelfth Doctor happens to wear two rings on the human wedding finger.** "And we don't always live together. Unconventional is our watchword." **Describe your relationship in four words.**

Jefferson shrugs.

"Far be it from me to judge, or expect judgement from you," adds the Doctor, and Jefferson shrugs again.  **Yes, this is about Hemings. I didn't want to go too into the issue, obviously, but I wanted to definitely nod to it, as the Doctor and Missy would know all about the Hemings-Jefferson relationship (which I use in its broadest possible terms).**

They watch Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, lick Missy's neck, sprinkle salt on it, and lick it again. Lafayette swigs something from a glass and Missy laughs, beckons the Doctor over.

The Doctor finishes his brandy, puts his glass down heavily.  **He's jealous, doesn't realise it - necks are an intimate thing for Time Lords. I don't know if this comes across. But he's setting the glass down accidentally too heavily with anger, not so much with deliberate purpose.** Unbuttons his collar. "You know what, Thomas Jefferson, third President of the United States?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"If you can't beat them, join them."

"I concur, Sir."  **This is a Hamilton reference.**

*** * ***  

Paris never changes, not really. The streets are vibrant and full of people and sound and life; the stars shine down. Loud music pours out of pubs and bars, artisans and courtesans run wild. A light snow is beginning to fall, so it hasn't been stamped into slush and made mucky with the filth of the streets. It's pretty. It's blurry. **Paris smelt like pee when I was there in 2015 and I'm forced to assume that hasn't changed in two hundred years. This has no relevance to the story, I think it just adds Realism to this time travelling tale about immortal aliens who can't be fucked using condoms when they really should know better.**

They're all stumbling - Thomas Jefferson, the Third President of the United States of America,the Mistress, the Doctor and Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette **love all those long titles, it's just pleasing to me** \- out of their fifth bar when Thomas slips and falls onto the cobbles. The Doctor, underneath the haze of red wine and brandy and scotch, is tempted to leave him there, **"get fucked Jefferson, and your Louisiana Purchase too,"** but Missy sprawls beside him and laughs her head off in the gutter.

The Doctor senses something, looks to his left, his vision skewed and unfocused. He looks harder, sees a flash of red neon decades too early. He stumbles, tries to organise his legs so he can walk, or at least stumble, towards it. The red light dances, oozes. Paris whirls around him.

"Doctaaaah," Missy sings.  **You can read this as Missy knowing the diner is there and trying to distract him, or she's just super drunk and wants the Doctor, it goes both ways. I flip flop on what it is, to be honest. I kind of like the idea that she's just drunk and Clara has SUPER bad luck.**

"Doctor, sir, help me help them, help me," says Lafayette, and starts giggling.

He and Lafayette scoop the Time Lady and future President of the United States off the cobbles and help them over to a bench. The Doctor slumps on the ground next to Missy, rests his forehead on her knees, his head spinning. She holds onto his shoulder. **When you think about it, that's pretty close, like an intimate way to be sitting, even if they're completely wasted.**

Lafayette leans to one side, throws up in the gutter. **Stay classy, Marie-Joseph.** Thomas hoots with laughter, slaps his thighs. Finds a flask in his frock-coat and passes it to the Doctor, who swigs, gives it to Missy. **And that, ladies and gents and other, is another indirect kiss.** She takes a drink, gives it back to Thomas.

"I didn't know people actually did that," the Doctor says.

"He's adorable," Missy slurs. "Thigh slapping goodness. Game me, gave me a chair once. Swivelley." **Thomas Jefferson may or may not have invented/popularized the swivel chair.**

"We should have a swordfight," the Doctor says into Missy's lap, **where is his face right now,** pretty sure he's drooling on her skirt. "'Member when we had swordfights."

"Yeah we should have a swordfight. Lafayette, gimme your - " Missy begins.  **DAMN I SHOULD HAVE MADE THEM SWORDFIGHT. Let's all take a moment to pray for this in series 10.**

"Another bar!" declares Thomas, and falls off the bench. "'S so cold."

"No more bars," whines Lafayette, head between his knees.

"Americans," a passer-by titters.

"We're SCOTTISH!" the Doctor and Missy shout as one, and laugh riotously. Then, they stop.

Missy cups his face, but the Doctor is the one to lean in and press their mouths together. **This was important to get across, so everything that comes after, sex-wise, is both of them. More or less.** Her lips are warm and chapped against his and she tastes like red wine and salt. **So, something red and salty, so, blood.** Missy pulls back, cradling his face, studies his face with something dark and burning in her eyes. Then, she leans in and kisses him harder, open-mouthed and needy. It's sloppy and they're both on the wrong side of tipsy and his knees are hurting and freezing on the cobbles. His hands are on her waist, sliding under her coat, pulling at her dress. Lafayette has fallen on top of Thomas, Missy's hands are in the Doctor's hair and pulling, her mind blurring onto the edge of his. **It's kind of going immediate sensation-his knees hurt-Missy's touching him-Lafayette's taken a spill-Missy's touching him is meant to show how drunk he is and how whacked out his brain is. Or something.**

"Yes it is," she whispers, kissing him again and again, his lips, his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. "Yes it is, yes it is."  **This is meant to come across as a bit desperate and a bit loving/affectionate. I don't know if it works. Someone come kiss me I need to research this further.**

"This is not," the Doctor says into Missy's mouth. "A good idea." He's kissing her back anyway.  **And yeah, if it's not clear, because their brains are blurring together, she's replying to him before he can make the comment.**

**And so now, the sex. I pushed the sex back a chapter, and thought about putting it before the Corporation, but as Missy does say later, sex is the thing these two do well. So they fight, then they make up, and the sex (in the way I write these two) sort of - can just chug along, when things are relatively good. It's the first time in a long time (since early Ainley period) they've been like this (whatever you feel Simm did to Ten during his time on the Valiant is completely different, and that's a different kind of fic), sort of buddy-buddy but occasionally shagging, and I feel like the Doctor and Missy both knew it was inevitable - I mean, they mention having had sex before the fic actually starts - and were kind of looking forward to it. This is covered in chapter two I believe. Sex, regardless of how asexual the Doctor seems to be, is inevitable.**

**And then I moved the sex to the end of chapter 4 to make all you thirsty people wait. The next sexy bits are in chapter 8, and I did deliberately make them sparse (I actually quite like writing sex scenes, they're a unique sort of challenge) because I really dislike reading a fic that starts off excellent and then once the characters start shagging, it just becomes sort of - half a chapter of dialogue/plot, half a chapter of porn. It happens in all fandoms, it just shits me.**

**So, porn.**

It's a drunken eight-footed stumble back to Thomas's residence, up and down staircases and down alleys and there's two or three near-misses where someone nearly ends up in the Seine. **I think I originally wrote Thames and spent like five minutes trying to remember what I meant.** The Doctor and Missy stumble upstairs to one of Thomas's spare rooms, one of his servants reluctantly showing them and a nauseous Lafayette the way. **No one wants to be the dude looking after the sloppy drunk people.** Missy loses her coat - they trip over that - and the Doctor somehow gets his boots off and they fall over those. Missy shoves him down on the bed. They kiss for a few minutes, slower, Missy shifting on top of him like a snake, the Doctor's hands drifting up and down her back and thighs, kissing at her neck until her skin is tingling. **It's meant to feel really organic and like they're sort of falling through the inevitable here, that they're used to this set of steps.** The Doctor pulls back, licks his lips. He frowns.

"What?" Missy asks. She touches his face. "You right?"

"Yes, yes," the Doctor says, leaning up and kissing her again. "You just smell, really good."  **Something something only other Gallifreyan he sees, something something familiarity. Other people write on this more than I do, and are much better at it than I.**

"You're so drunk."

"You're drunker. I was playing catch-up."

The Doctor rolls them both onto their sides. She presses their foreheads together. **NICE FOREHEAD TOUCH MISSY YOU TOUCH THEM FOREHEADS TOGETHER YES.**

"You're so soft," the Doctor says, hands roving, one to her waist, the other delving into her hair. Missy bites his jaw. "Well, most of you. It's so nice. Are we going to have sex?"

Missy props herself up on her elbows, leans over him, with one on each side of his head. She looks down at him with a quirk to her lips. The Doctor meets her gaze, grins, laughs. She dips her head and their mouths meet again. The Doctor starts to unlace her dress, brushing his fingers down her sternum. He licks up her neck. **Nothing of substance to add - just sort of - it's meant to have a sense of fun and casual intimacy, like they've been doing this for two thousand years, on and off, and they know each other's bodies and sensibilities and they're drunk, and in Paris, and their relationship is working, and they're drunk.**

"So drunk," she says. "So, so drunk."

"And to you," says the Doctor. He leans up and kisses her, slipping a hand inside her dress, resting it over her right heart.  **I bet on Gallifrey each heart has different symbolism, like one's the Feelings Heart and the other's the Instinct heart or some shit like that, like how Japanese (?) culture holds that different blood types affect your personality. Like, it's the Time Lord equivalent of horoscopes, but it's a known belief or something. Or, Twelve could just be right handed and that hand's free for heart/boob grabbing duty.**

"I want to be on top," Missy says, and rolls off him, kicks off her own shoes. "'S a yes, by the way. That's a yes. I don't care what you think."

The Doctor helps Missy with her dress; leaves her to deal with her underclothes while he extricates himself from his own shirt and pants. It's a struggle. Missy keeps working away at her underwear. That's a struggle as well.

"Ah, the Regency," the Doctor says, and leans over, helps her unlace bits and pieces of fabric. Gives up, watches her undress with interest.  **I had a point to make about desire here, and how even though she's not in her usual clothes, Missy's still quite covered up. It's like, River is boobs out tight pants (this is not a problem, at least one we're not going into here) whereas Missy is so buttoned up and corseted and boots and hat and even adding gloves (back) to her costume wouldn't be out of place. I think Michelle Gomez said something about that helping with her performance, that the costume is restrictive and tight and Missy just sort of - explodes out from those restrictions. Or something.** "Another thing to hate Napoleon for. Or George. Both. All of them."

"Wrong country for the Regency. Hold this. Ready?" Missy rips something padded off her chest. "Too early."

"Is this - " he says again, and Missy leans down, licks into his mouth.

"Yes it is, it is," she says, cradling his head, staring into his eyes. "You're so beautiful."  **So Missy pulls this a lot in this fic, calling him 'beautiful' and I do it to try and pull people out of slotting them into heterosexual….slots… boxes. Roles. That's the word. It's very deliberate, and I don't think (checks) yep, the Doctor never calls Missy explicitly beautiful, though he does say she's stunning etc. I think beautiful is quite loaded and very feminine, at least in my country. So beautiful is meant to be a little signpost going Ding! Remember, these are aliens with differing concepts of gender, sexuality and aesthetic pleasure. A signpost for me, and everyone else.**

"Your eyes are blue. Have you had blue eyes before? They're so blue." **THEY'RE SO BLUE.**

The Doctor slips his fingers down between her thighs, drags his fingers through the wetness there and rubs her clit with sweeping circles. Missy makes small pleased noises as she kisses him. Finally, she straightens up, guides herself onto his cock with a moan the Doctor matches. Missy leans forward, sighing softly.

"My Doctor," she whispers in his ear, licks the side of his face.  **Ew, Missy. This is so oddly animalistic and possessive, which is why I chucked it in there.**

She moves her hips and groans at the changing pressure inside her. The Doctor raises his hands to her waist, slides them up to palm her warm breasts. The Doctor wants her to move, holds himself back and she does, lifting herself off his cock and sliding on again, her eyes closing in pleasure. She starts slowly, whimpering as the Doctor teases her nipples. Missy tightens her legs around the Doctor's hips, the bed creaking underneath them, Missy biting her lip. They move like this for a few minutes, gasps turning to groans. Missy laughs, and the Doctor does too. **See above note about it being fun, and organic, and casual, and yadda yadda they're fucking like I have nothing to add here.**

"Don't wake the President," he says, and Missy laughs harder, shrieks with surprise when the Doctor struggles up, bites her neck.  **But yeah, fun. Like that comic on tumblr, find someone who makes you laugh during sex. First step for me - find someone who wants to have sex. These two do run the gamut of ways to have sex in this fic though - here they're drunk and happy, in chapter eight they're horny as hell (because Missy is pregnant), and in chapter eleven they're insanely upset and a bit nutty. And then there's other bits where it's implied Missy was like "hey, let's bang" and the Doctor was like "fine. FINE."**

**There is also a bit where he wants to bang and Missy wants to go hiking, but I can't remember when that was and the whole point was to sort of imply how far gone the Doctor is for Missy, even if he won't admit it to himself. Where were we? Ah yes, sex.**

Missy moves faster still, her breath coming in gasps, breasts bouncing. The Doctor cants his hips under hers, drops his hands to her thighs and grips them.

"Missy, come on," he whispers. "Don't tease."

"I'll tease however I want," she says, tensing around him. She lifts herself off his cock, slides her own fingers into her cunt, gasps. "Is this teasing? Is it?"

The Doctor flips them, Missy on her back, and pushes into her. She moans into his shoulder as he fucks her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. Missy pants as he licks the sweat on her neck, her nails dragging down his back, his fingers twisting in her hair. It's rough and it's hard and Missy wants more. The headboard thumps loudly against the wall. There's a returning bang on the plaster that neither of them notice. **I pissed myself laughing when I put this in and I like it because it kind of breaks up what's quite a formulaic sex scene. For some reason, the concept of Lafayette, poor Lafayette who threw up earlier, just lying there with his head spinning, trying to sleep, feeling like shit - and the two weirdos who came out drinking with him and his buddy Thomas start fucking like animals in the next room over. Like, poor Lafayette.** Missy cries his name on nearly every stroke, whimpering, gripping at his shoulders. The Doctor holds his face against her neck, panting, repeating her name in answer, driving her closer and closer to the edge -

She comes with a yell, and the Doctor follows, his strokes going from solid to erratic until he buries himself inside her. She brings their lips together, gasping, kisses him as he comes, groaning against her mouth. **Love that unprotected sex, you MORONS.**

They kiss messily for a few minutes, Missy grinding against his thigh, whimpering, desperate for more release.

"I want - " she whispers, and the Doctor rolls over onto his back, gives her a tired grin.

"I will not being doing - " he says, then stops, laughs, kisses her. "'M not gonna be doing that again tonight."  **My foolproof method for writing dialogue where people are drunk: Write the scene with dialogue. Go, drink something alcoholic. Come back. Rewrite the dialogue. Go to bed. Come back sober - fix the spelling if it is unpronounceable by the human tongue but if it could work as a mispronunciation, keep it. Do not fix the repeated words. Make them slur a bit, cut off the beginnin and end of their wors. Words. Boom, realistic drunken dialogue.**

Missy whines, guides his hand between her legs. Fingers slicked with the mess there, he slides them into her cunt, fucks Missy with his hand as she brings herself off again with a quiet sigh.

The Doctor wipes his hand on one of the sheets. Missy drops kisses across his face and chest, humming happily, only stops when the Doctor cups her chin, tilts her head to meet his eyes. They find where the blankets have been kicked down to the end of the bed, and the Doctor pulls them up to cover both of them. Missy rests her head against his chest, runs a hand across his ribs. The Doctor laughs again, lazily.

"What?"

"This is like, it looks," the Doctor says, and makes a wide gesture, brings his hand back in to hold her waist. It takes a great deal of concentration for him to get the next part of his sentence out. "Aggressively heterosexual for us." **Never let it be said I'm not a self-aware writer.**

Missy snorts, covers her face with her hand. "It is." She reaches up, brings their faces together, kisses him gently.

The Doctor pushes his face into her hair. "'m tired," he says.  **He loves her hair. This is mostly because, I wanted him to. But also, you could look at it as Missy's hair, like her clothes, is usually so under control and suppressed, and now it's all tangled and loose everywhere. Also, this is the first time one of them has even had hair this long (that we've seen). So it's new, it's novel.**

"Not my fault."

He laughs again, tightens his grip on her waist. "Yes it is."

Missy smiles to herself. "Yeah, it is."  **Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting, foul, drunk, cutesy shit they'd never do in front of humans in a million years. I love it.**

**Anyway so like - some of the sex scenes I've read in the D/M fandom have been utterly fascinating and use themore alien elements of them being Time Lords in much better ways than I ever could. I like the fics that use their psychic abilities or neck thing (which is kind of present here but it's not focused on) but it's something I feel I'm not a good enough sex writer to do (yet). As well as that, they're drunk, so I feel like they'd be more about shagging than getting into a really complicated Time Lord sex ritual with the vibrator of Rassilon or whatever. What a sentence. Now, I should have put more psychic stuff in the later sex scenes, but I didn't really, and I kind of regret that, but there is a point made much later about Missy actively and constantly working to keep the Doctor from seeing her dreams. I should have brought that thread out more, more than just having the two of them occasionally wake the other up accidentally when they're sharing a bed.**

**I mentioned this in a comment so I should also put here that I headcanon that Gallifreyans, being psychic beings, would be a species that has some control over their reproduction. I mean they would have like….80% control over it in the active sense of thinking, "Damn, I really don't wanna get pregnant"/"Damn, I really want a baby with this person" and it has to be both parties who want a kid, or at least feel quite close/intimate and plan on spending a long time with each other before a pregnancy occurs. I deliberately left that out of the main fic because I felt it had the potential to get very saccharine very fast. And, it's something the Doctor and Missy probably wouldn't talk about because to them, it's common knowledge, the human equivalent would be something like "well, this pregnancy will certainly last nine months!"**

**Cheesy summary: On Gallifrey, you really have to love the person before you have a baby with them awwww and now you know why I left it the fuck out of here. But both the Doctor and Missy know that fact, they've just - not remembered it at this point.**

**And I'm putting this here too, I considered putting the scene in (later, much later of course) where the Doctor and Missy….conceived their spawn, but I couldn't figure out a way of writing it without going HEY GUYS THIS IS IMPORTANT so we probably don't see that sex scene but it was perfectly normal and a clear reminder that wearing protection is important when engaging in intercourse with your long-term enemy/best friend/romantic partner.**

*** * ***  

There's a light tap at the door.

It's far too bright.

The Doctor pulls the blankets over his head. Missy groans. He aches all over, but the worst is his throbbing head. Or his dry mouth. He tries to move again. No, it's his head.

"No," Missy says.

There's another knock at the door.

"I'm leaving a tray outside!" a voice calls. The language sounds alien and wrong-shaped to his ears, until the TARDIS translation matrix catches up with his aching brain and translates the French properly. **Or the TARDIS just wants to punish him for sticking it to Missy.** Missy twitches. "Mr Jefferson and his…Mr Jefferson is not up yet either. **Another nod to Hemings. I don't know if I should have kept that reference, still.** Breakfast shall be served in an hour."

"No," says Missy again, trying to burrow into the mattress. She grabs the Doctor around the waist and he yelps. Missy pulls him half on top of her, presses her face against his chest. "No." **Again, this is a different kind of familiarity. She's just sort of - manhandling him, and he lets her. He's kind of used to it. They're really pressed together here.**

The footsteps outside retreat.

"Bags not," says the Doctor, trying not to move.

"No."

"No."

Missy nips the skin on his ribs. He winces. She laps her tongue over her teethmarks.

"How is that meant to persuade me?" he groans.

"I'll bite lower."  **Missy used to have a penis. She knows how attached one can be, presumably.**

The Doctor rolls out of bed, shudders when the cold air hits him, drags the top blanket off the bed and wraps the scratchy wool around himself like a cape. He stumbles through their clothes, fumbles with the door until it works, **I couldn't remember when the doorhandle/latch was invented so I left it ambiguous,** drags the laden tray in.

"If there's food, I don't want it," Missy says. "It smells so bad in here."

Stooped and awkward, the Doctor pours them both black coffees, tips half the sugar bowl in one and ferries them, one by one, to the bedside table. He clambers back into bed, rearranges the pillows so he can slump weakly against the headboard.

Missy blinks up at him from her nest of blankets. She has panda eyes from her makeup rubbing off, and her hair is a mess.

"Coffee," he manages to say, lifts one hand and strokes her hair back.

She puts her head under the pillow instead. "I'm sore. Go away."

"Sorry."

"It's a good sore."

Missy sighs, drags herself up next to him, holding the blankets up around her chest. The Doctor passes her the non-sugared coffee. She kisses him on the cheek, lets her head loll onto his shoulder. She rubs his thigh with her cool fingers.

"What are you covering with the blankets?"

"It's cold." Missy gives him a look. "You weren't that drunk."

The Doctor puts his coffee on the table, grabs the edge of the bedding, pulls it away from her chest.

"Ah yes. I remember. Excellent," he says, nosing under her jaw and kissing her under her ear. "Wait. Hang on."  **So this, here is my theory. Twelve is not an intimate/cuddly dude, but once he's in the Mood, as they later phrase it, he's cuddlier (and when he's asleep, which is covered in earlier chapters) and it takes him a while to come down from that and go back to his base level of comfort which is NO TOUCHING AT ALL ONLY A TINY BIT except Clara (and presumably Bill).**

Down between the headboard and the mattress, he finds his shirt, yanks it out. He shakes it, gives it to Missy, who puts it on gratefully. **~Somebody draw this~** She leans against him, holds her coffee in her lap. The Doctor wraps his arm around her shoulders.

"Do we have to go for - " the Doctor begins, when there's another, much louder thump on the door.

"Yes?" Missy calls.

The door opens and Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, pokes his head through, looking very much the worse for wear.

"I hate you both," Lafayette says, and slams it shut again.

 *** * ***  

A very quiet breakfast with a drooping Thomas Jefferson and a slightly green Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette later, Missy and the Doctor say their goodbyes, troop back to the TARDIS, and he takes it into space as gently as possible.

"I'm going to go die in the shower," he says, staggering out of the console room. "And then go to bed, and die there."

 

The Doctor showers, throws up in the shower, **I think I stole this from Parks and Rec, which I've never watched,** showers some more, makes himself shave, because Missy had red marks all along her chest and thighs. **We never actually - there was never a bit I wrote where Missy could theoretically get those marks, so I figure they did go round two and I just didn't write it.** Finds his favourite checkered pants and some kind of band t-shirt. He holds it up to read the slogan.

"Hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don't like," he says, shrugs. Puts it on, and finds himself feeling a little better. He can't even remember where he got it. **Yeah, Clara. I try not to examine the logistics of how the shirt got there, but you know. Symbolism. Clara's still out there. You know.**

Missy's not in his room. The Doctor backs out, not sure why he thought she'd be there at all. He checks her empty bedroom. Wanders the corridors until the TARDIS relents and takes him to the lounge Missy's holed up in, lying on the beaten-up couch under a ratty blanket. Some brightly-coloured animated film is playing on a grainy old CRT television, tropical fish swimming all over the screen. **Yes, it is Lilo and Stitch. I love that the TARDIS has literally just…put Missy in a shitty room. Like, the TARDIS is pissed, so Missy gets the shitty TV that won't turn off and the crap blanket and the old ugly couch. "Fuck you, Missy," says the TARDIS. "But he likes you, so I can't just kill you again."**

**Lilo and Stitch could be read as a symbolic choice about what makes a family and redeeming yourself when you're a so-called monster. In all honesty, I just really like Lilo and Stitch.**

"I have no idea what this is," she says. "The TARDIS won't let me turn it off."

She lifts herself up, the Doctor collapses onto the couch and kicks his boots off. Missy lies back down with her head in his lap, pulls the blanket back up. **I feel like poses like this are far more intimate than 1000 words of fucking. Logistically I find them harder to write.** He picks at one of the loose threads coming out of the arm, toys with the yellowing stuffing poking out of a hole in the brown velvet. **Shit, I think I owned that couch.** There's a song playing in the film.

"What language is that?" Missy asks dully.

"Something from Earth's Pacific region," the Doctor says.

"Huh. 'S nice. Sounds like Middle Western Gallifreyan."

"From the foothills?"

"Yeah." Her voice is still flat, tired. "Who spoke it at the Academy with that accent? I think - "

"No idea. Wait. The blonde girl I had a crush on. I can't even remember her name now." The Doctor tilts his head to one side. "Yes - it kind of does. Of course, they don't sing in it on Gallifrey."

"Ah Gallifrey. If they could see us now. Terrors of the Time Lords."

"Do you want me to turn it off?"

"No, it's nice."

"It is." The Doctor settles into the couch, which creaks, and takes a deep breath. Leans forward and removes a throw pillow from beneath his back. Relaxes. Missy brings one of her hands around, pats his knee. He rests a hand on her hair. It's still got pins in it from yesterday. He picks one out, puts it on the coffee table. Finds another pin.

"You have plaster dust in your hair."

"Hm."

The Doctor finds a third pin, puts it carefully next to the other ones on the table.

"I want to have sex," Missy says in the same flat tone, still watching the film.  **The exact tone - "Damn that was a good night, but I am so tired and so hungover I want to die. Damn that was fun."**

"Uh."

"Not right now. Not constantly. Just, more. I like having sex, and I like having it with you," she says. "You really need to try being female out. I mean, really. Really. I forgot how good the orgasms were, once you figure out how to have them. It's quite simple - "

"Missy."

"I know, you don't have much of a drive this time around. Which is fine. But you do - enjoy yourself, when we get started. You helped start that, last night. It reduces stress."

"I feel a bit stressed right now, if I'm honest."

"Yes, but until I brought it up?"

"I suppose," the Doctor says, not really sure what the right answer is. "It's a reasonable request."

"Put it in the contract," says Missy. "Your terms. I don't care, just stick it in. That counts for the contract and - "

"Don't jump me in the shower. Term one. I'm old and delicate."

"Please. You play the electric guitar and went skydiving a few months ago."

"When did I go skydiv - Missy, you blew up the plane I was on. Let's discuss this."

"Baby, sh, I'm trying to watch the movie."  **I don't know. I don't know why. I just needed to have Missy call him baby. For some reason - it was just vital to have this happen.**

The Doctor is silent for ten full seconds. "Did you just call me - "

"Well it's not like I want to do it all the time," Missy says, and amazingly, her voice is still as flat as a lizard drinking. **Full saying - flat out as a lizard drinking. Technically it's a misuse of the term because it actually means you're busy, like flat out. Busy as a one-armed bricklayer.** "We'll travel together sometimes, we'll shag occasionally, as opposed to never, I'll do your nails, we'll go out for dinner. Sex is the one thing we've always managed to get right, 98% of the time. It diffuses tension."

The Doctor opens his mouth, closes it. "You make a good point. I guess, if you want to - "

"You want to, too. You wouldn't have shaved if you didn't."  **And that comes back in a massive way.** Missy yawns. "God, I'm good. I'm going back to my TARDIS later," she adds. "I need some me-time."  **We rarely see Missy decide to leave, from memory. I just like the idea of them both mostly being like "cool, k, see you later." This of course changes.**

"Fair call," the Doctor says. "That's fine. We should stay on yours, next time. The old girl won't mind."

"She'll be pleased to see the back of me, more like."

The Doctor pokes Missy's shoulder until she sits up and gives him a look. He takes her hips and makes her stand, **I love that sort of easy touchiness they both have over each other here,** retrieves the throw pillow and puts his head on it, lies down on the couch. Missy settles back onto the cushions, spreads the blanket over both of their legs, and leans back against his chest, warm and solid and familiar. She takes the Doctors arm and drapes it around her waist. Hums when the Doctor presses his face against the back of her head, breathes in the smell of her hair. And probably a few flakes of plaster dust. Missy laces their fingers together.

"Told you it diffuses tension," she mumbles.

"Shh. Baby. I can't hear the movie."  **My horse and kingdom to hear Peter Capaldi drop this line.**

**I like this chapter. It's one of my favourite chapters. I have nothing of substance to add here but another long spiel about how much I love the response to this fanfiction. Thanks so much for reading!**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
